Page 24 of Freed By Wrath

“I’m not.”

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal, but—”

“But what?

“You know how he is, Isaac. He’s been attached to her since that night, and he never stopped looking out for her. He’s not letting her go.”

“Can’t you see this is not healthy? He committed a crime, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He’s obsessed, Fab. What do you think will happen when she leaves this house in the morning and walks to the station to press charges on us? On him? He’s too trusting, too naive. Even after years on this fucking job, he’s always hoping for the best, and I don’t think it’s reliable.”

“I know, but for once, I think you need to trust him.”

“Trust him? Are you for real?”

“Man, this job only takes things from us.”

It’s true, it takes everything: evenings, holidays. The patience for people who’ve never had to hold someone’s hand while they die and then drive home and pretend it didn’t happen. Most relationships don’t survive the weight of it. Most people stop asking how your day was. Eventually you stop knowing how to answer.

I’m lucky. These two idiots are the reason I haven’t lost the thread of who I was before the badge. But sharing any of it with someone outside this apartment?

I can’t remember the last time I tried.

“Slash needs his best friends in this situation, not his coworkers. And Val—”

“Needs to leave.”

“Needs someone. If that someone can be us, let it.”

“You’re ready to lose everything for this? For her?”

“I’m not ready to do anything yet, man. I’m just saying that we all need something and maybe tonight is the night we can pretend to be on the other side of the line. If there’s a reason to do it at some point, I believe this is it.”

“That doesn’t make it legal.”

“No.”

He glances toward the closed door. “But it doesn’t make it wrong.”

I look at our office door and imagine the woman asleep on the other side of it.

Toward the single worst decision any of us has made in ten years of friendship.

Or maybe the beginning of something none of us saw coming.

I honestly can’t tell yet.

“Fine,” I say.

Fabien nods, tucks the box of frames under his arm, and heads out to finish clearing the rest of the apartment.

I stay in the office for another minute.

Then I pour a glass of water in the kitchen, set it on the coffee table beside her, and leave for my bedroom. But not before I notice how she’s curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek.

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