SHARDS OF GLASS everywhere, something hard striking my head, and Justin and I are thrown from the couch as another body sails into us.
All three of us hit the hardwood floor.
Darkness.
Chaos and shouting and thumping and grunting and smashing.
Darkness.
I open my eyes, my head reeling, my vision blurred.
Justin and …
Aiden.
Struggling on the floor. Aiden on top, with the knife raised. Justin grabbing his arm to hold him off.
Telling myself to move, begging my arms and legs to work, the room angled sideways, spinning— Move.
I lunge forward, both hands aiming for the knife. The knife, the most important thing, disarm the suspect, disable the weapon.
All my body weight, plowing into Aiden, both hands gripping his wrist, sending Aiden and me over Justin to the floor. I hit the floor again, hard, colorful bursts dancing around my eyes.
But I have the knife.
Behind me, the shuffling of feet. With everything I can muster, I manage to crane my neck around.
Just as Aiden Willis is climbing up on the couch and jumping out through the window, the same way he came.
Justin moans. Blood coming from his forehead, his breathing shallow.
Around us, chaos. A piece of lawn furniture, the one that helped Aiden break through the window, the one that smacked me in the temple, lying by the bookcase. The glass table overturned. Food everywhere. Broken glass littering the couch and floor.
And blood. Justin’s blood. And mine, some of which is spilling into my eyes right now from the head wound.
“Are you … okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, short of breath. He props himself up on his elbows. Several cuts across his cheeks and forehead from the glass. Nothing too serious, nothing life-threatening. “How about you?”
“Were you cut?” I crawl toward him. “By the knife, I mean.”
He shakes his head. He looks about as stunned as I am. “What the hell just happened?”
The wind gusting through the open, shattered window.
“We have to call the police,” I say, just now catching my breath.
“But …” Justin forces himself to sit up, grimacing. “If there’s a warrant for your arrest, you can’t be—”
“It doesn’t matter. We have to report this.”
He reaches over and grabs my hand. I squeeze back. After a moment, we help each other to our feet. He brings me close, hugging me, our chests heaving, our hearts pounding in tandem.
“I’m … so sorry, Justin,” I say into his chest. “I brought this to you. I never should have come here.”
“No, no.” He cradles my head with his hand. “I want you here.”
“I think … you just saved my life,” I say.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. And here I told you … you were safe.”
I close my eyes and nestle in the comfort of his arms.
I was safe. Or at least, I should have been safe. How did Aiden even know I was here? I wasn’t followed in my car. I checked the rearview mirror the whole time for patrol cars. The streets were deserted. Nobody followed me by car.
So how did Aiden know?
Nobody knew I was coming here.
Then my eyes pop open.
A chill courses through me.
One person knew.
84
THE EAST HAMPTON Town Police respond to Justin’s call. I know some members of that force from working on the multijurisdictional drug task force, but I don’t know any of the ones who arrive at the scene. It’s clear the officers know who I am when I give them my name, thanks to the Noah Walker trial. They are respectful and courteous as they scribble their notes and take photographs and scan the living room and backyard for evidence.
I sit quietly for hours, letting them do their work, waiting for one of them to inform me that there’s a warrant outstanding for my arrest, or an APB, from the STPD. But it doesn’t happen. No handcuffs come out. No perp walk. They just promise to keep us updated on their investigation and leave.
An armed invasion in East Hampton is something the cops take seriously, so I know they’re going to be looking hard for Aiden now.
Which also means that, if Aiden has a single functioning brain cell in his head, he’s in the wind now. Gone. Skedaddled.
“I’m sorry about this,” I say to Justin. “He was after me, not you. I brought him to your house.”
“He brought himself.” Justin touches my arm. “You’re the good guy, remember?”
Not sure about that. I’d say Justin’s the good guy. And dammit, I really wish my feelings for him went deeper than that. I wish I could manufacture some chemistry, a spark between us.
The wind whips up, straining the large pieces of cardboard that we used to cover the shattered window.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Stay. It’s after four in the morning. And you can’t go home.”
I probably can go home, actually. Apparently, Isaac’s plan to “take care of” me doesn’t include issuing a warrant for my arrest for breaking into Aiden’s house.