Page 135 of Worth the Fall

“C’mon, Em. Open up.” I pound my fist on her door. Again. The same as I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes.

“She obviously doesn’t want to talk.”

Leo’s voice startles me, and when I turn, I find him leaning against the wall of the next hangar over, arms across his chest, eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a ball cap, body riddled with irritation.

“Thanks, but it’s none of your business, Leo,” I say and turn back to the door.

“It actually is my business.”

I’m not in the mood for this shit. “You know what?” I say as I take a few steps down the stairs. “I love that you watch out for, Em. I do . . . I love knowing that when she’s here alone, you have her back . . . but I’m not the prick from the loan office trying to get in her pants. I appreciate the whole big brother thing you have going, but it isn’t needed. So, do you mind?”

Leo stands to his full height and takes a few steps toward me. Christ, here comes the macho bullshit.

“Choose wisely,” I say with a lift of my brow. While I may not be in the mood to fight after hitting a heavy bag for over an hour, landing a punch on a real, live person might feel a lot more satisfying.

We stare at each other for a few seconds before he nods slowly.

“She isn’t here.”

“Where is she?”

He shrugs. “Not sure.” He knows where she is. “She took off outta here like a bat out of hell.”

“Christ.” Emerson has gone, and I have no one to blame but myself.

“You’re a good guy, Malone, but cop or no cop, you hurt her, I have no problem throwing a punch in her honor.”

“I think she’d have no problem throwing one herself.”

* * *

The entire day replays in my head. Over and fucking over.

Killing the interview. I nailed every question with such precision that when I walked out of there, I had no doubt I was going to get the promotion.

The highest high.

Coming home to what I thought was perfection—Emerson’s car in my driveway and her waiting for me in my house—and then it turning to shit.

The look on Em’s face. The accusations she hurled. The goddamn fucking everything I did to her all because I kept the file. If I wasn’t going to look at it, then why did I keep it?

The lowest low.

Fuck me.

The rest of the night is a blur. The gym. The showdown with Leo. The coming home to see the file sitting on the table and knowing I’m to blame for all of this but having no clue how to fix it.

If she thought I broke her trust before—twenty years ago—and she had a hard time getting over it, then she sure as shit isn’t going to get over this.

But what kills me more than anything is what happened this afternoon when I went to move her file into the storage box. I can’t get it out of my head. The loose picture that slipped out and fell to the floor. The one of an eight-year-old Emmy Reeves—eyes haunted, skin pale, body language withdrawn, scared as hell—staring back at the camera.

The sight staggered me. My memory may have remembered a little girl with bouncy pigtails, freckles, a smile with missing teeth, and a laugh that came from her belly, but that was only the reality a naïve little boy could see. A little girl who looked so scared she might break if you push her shoulder with your finger is what she was.

And even two hours later, I can’t get the image out of my head because that haunted look she had in the photo was the same one Emerson looked back at me with today before she left.

“Earth to Grant,” Grayson says, throwing a pretzel at me. I don’t react.

Leave me the fuck alone. I repeat it in my head for the millionth time but don’t say a damn word. I want to wallow in my pity. I don’t deserve to, but I’m going to.