“I need you to text me a picture of your driver’s license.”
I smother a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Fromyourphone.”
A chuckle escapes. I know a strong mama bear when I see it. She won’t let me off this call until she has my numberand all my personal information. “Yes, ma’am,” I oblige, pulling my phone and wallet from my pocket.
“Well, you are polite. I’ll give you that. I bet you were raised by a good woman.”
I swallow, clear my throat. “The best, ma’am.”
She hums, waiting as I type her number into my phone and send off the text with a picture of my I.D.
Hannah’s asleep now. I lower my voice to a whisper. “Did you get it?”
“I did. Don’t tell her, because she’ll insist I shouldn’t, but I’m coming over.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
Lydia sighs and I hear the rustling of keys and footsteps. “Did he hurt her?”
I look at Hannah again. Lips parted slightly, eyes shut, but brows pinched—mask cracked just enough when she thinks nobody’s watching. “Yes, ma’am. But he won’t anymore. You have my word.”
My word means nothing to Lydia—she doesn’t know me—but she has it, regardless. I’ll take care of Daniel in my own way whether or not Hannah decides to report him.
A minute later, I end the call and climb out of the car. When I open the passenger door, Hannah doesn’t stir. I dig around her purse for her keys, then tuck it under my arm. I shimmy her body around, moving to cradle her the way I did in the parking lot. Her forehead falls to my shoulder and a quiet snore vibrates along my collarbone. It takes some creative maneuvering, but I finally haul her out of her seat. Her purse rests on her stomach, and I dangle her heels from the hand I have braced behind her back.
At the door, I try three keys in the deadbolt before I find the right one. Hannah sleeps through all of it. Inside, I use my elbow to flip the nearest light switch and spot a hallway around the corner. The room at the end has a queen-size bed and a nightstand littered with half-empty water glasses, a few books, a bottle of hand lotion, and at least five tubes of chapstick.
I get her situated safely on the mattress and place her belongings on the dresser. After taking the old water glasses to the kitchen and fetchinga fresh one, I dig through the cabinet in her en suite bathroom until I find a bottle of ibuprofen.
“Hannah,” I whisper, sweeping the hair off her face. “Can you take these for me?”
Her lids flutter open, gaze catching on my face before dipping to the capsules in my hand. She tips them back and collapses to her pillow again.
I drop to my knees, eyes level with hers. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“Too tired,” she mumbles.
“What about your clothes? Do you wanna change?”
She shakes her head and opens one eye, gesturing to the chair in the corner. “Just hand me my sweatshirt.”
I tread over and find the gray hoodie draped over the arm rest. The black text across the front slams into my chest the second I turn it over in my hands.ARMY.
A lump forms in my throat.She kept it.
Back at her side, I coax her to a seated position and help her slide it on. She hides her face inside the neck like it’s the only place she feels safe. Sagging back to the pillow, she curls onto one side, knees tucked up to her stomach.
I don’t know what to make of what I see. Beautiful. A little bruised. Swallowed up bymysweatshirt I sure as hell don’t ever want back now.
“You didn’t ask me,” she says, voice groggy.
I settle on my haunches beside her. “Ask you what?”
“To tell you something real.”
One wrist breaks free of the sleeve as she shifts into a more comfortable position. I graze my thumb over the shadowed marks on her wrist. A muscle in my jaw ticks. “Tell me something real, runaway.”