She dabbed at her mouth, which left a clown smile of red across her cheek. “I said I’m fine.”
I nodded, watching the way her hands shook so bad the tissue disintegrated. Her nails were manicured, not those fake press-ons, but the real deal—French tips, three-hundred-dollar salon work, now ragged and brown with dirt. Her shoes were ridiculous, the kind you buy at Barneys, suede and impractical, mud caked up to the calf. Her blouse, or what was left, could’ve fed me for a week if I pawned it. All of it totally at odds with the way she sat in the grass, hunched and hollow.
“You got a name?” I asked.
She hesitated, eyes darting back to the graves like she was afraid her attackers would pop up again, like daisies. “Melissa.”
I waited, but nothing else came. “Melissa what?”
She glared. “You first.”
I smiled, showed a little of my own teeth. “Augustine.”
“Like the saint?”
“Only on Sundays.”
The smallest smirk tried to form, then vanished. She looked at the grass, drawing her knees up tighter. “What now?”
I shrugged. “You tell me. I can call the cops, call an ambulance, or pretend this never happened. Dealer’s choice.”
At that, she laughed—a single, brittle bark. “No police. Absolutely not.” Her accent sharpened on the last word, pure prep school panic.
“Fine,” I said, “but you need stitches. And you probably got a concussion.”
“I can walk.” She tried to stand and immediately crumpled, bracing on her palms. Her wrists had lines, not from tonight but from the before-times: white and straight, the kind you only get if you’re very committed or very bored. I filed that away.
She stayed down, eyes watering, but didn’t let out a sound. I admired the stubbornness.
“You want to tell me why a girl in shoes that cost more than my bike is out here at dawn, picking fights with local meth heads?” I tried to keep it gentle, but it came out flat.
She gave me a look like I’d just spit in her food. “You wouldn’t get it.”
I shrugged. “Try me.”
She looked at the sky for a long moment, jaw grinding so hard I thought she might snap a tooth. “I was making a delivery. It went bad.”
“What kind of delivery?”
She stared at the ground, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Alright,” I said, and let it go. “But it matters to those guys. You want me to deal with them, or you want to just walk away?”
That got her attention. Her face closed up like a fist. “You think I want payback?”
“I think you want something,” I said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
Her breathing got sharp. “I just want to leave.”
A little clatter from behind a tombstone, maybe thirty yards out—the sound of a boot or a hand scrabbling at marble. Melissa’s whole body stiffened, eyes wild.
“Hey,” I said, low and direct, “if you want out, I can get you out. But you gotta move now.”
She looked at the jacket on the grass. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.
I stood, slow and easy, and held out my hand. “It’s a ride or die situation, princess.”
For a second, I thought she’d spit in my face. But she took my hand, ice-cold and soft, and let me pull her upright. She was taller than I expected, maybe five-nine in those ruined boots, but light as a scarecrow. Up close, I could see the pattern of bruises blossoming under her collarbone, already turning green at the edges. Her skin was so pale it made the blood stand out in almost neon lines.