Bren’s smile is a slash of teeth. “I have already spoken with my attorney. He’s on his way. Don’t make me call him again.”
“I have no idea why you would think that’s necessary,” Norcut says, suddenly beaming at Bren like they’re besties. “We’ve always been open with you about her progress.”
“Don’t start. I don’t want to hear another word from you. Ever.”
There’s a pause before Norcut’s hand slides between my shoulder blades. She gives me the gentlest push. “Go on, dear. Don’t make your mother wait.”
I hesitate. Norcut sounds ever so mild. Like what just happened between us didn’t.
It scares me.
I spin and power walk to my room. Before, I had only brought the absolute bare necessities. Now, I throw the rest of my stuff into the bag and make a dive for the bathroom. Only a few things there. More clothes. My class notes and homework. I grab everything I can and drag the bag’s strap over my shoulder.
“Now, Wick!” Bren’s voice is close. Just on the other side of the door.
In the hallway, Norcut and Bren are squared off in front of each other. “Ready?” Bren asks, eyes never wavering from the psychiatrist’s smile.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I know what you’re doing,” Bren says, still focused on Norcut.
The therapist’s laugh is light and tinkly. “And what exactly am I ‘doing’? Rehabilitating children who would otherwise be in jail?”
“You’re not a hero.”
Norcut’s mouth snaps shut. “And you’re lying about your attorney being on the way. You can’t do anything against me, not without giving up her.”
Bren pales.
“If you take her,” Norcut continues, “I’ll withdraw our security teams. You’ll be on your own—alone—against him. Is that what you really want?”
“I don’t want anything at the expense of my daughter,” Bren breathes.
“I’ll need your key card, Wick.” Norcut turns her attention to me and I have to stab both feet into the carpet to keep from running. “Do you have it?”
I nod, tug the card from my pocket, and pass it to her. Norcut’s fingertips touch mine and they’ve gone completely cold. “I’ll give you a call soon, okay, dear?”
I reposition my bag to hide my sudden shaking. Norcut raises her brows, expecting an answer, but Bren wraps one arm around my shoulders and pins me to her side. She steers me toward the elevator and swears under her breath when we have to wait. The doors finally open and she hauls me inside, punching the down button again and again. It doesn’t move.
“One moment.” Norcut glides into the elevator, swipes her badge through the reader, and presses the lobby button. “Now you can go,” she says to Bren.
But Norcut watches me until the doors close.
We hurtle downward. Neither of us says a word. There’s just our breathing—shallow and harsh—between us.
The elevator doors grind open, revealing a spacious lobby and lots of people. I’m ever so briefly confused—I thought we were going to the parking deck?—and then I realize we’re in the main lobby, the one customers would come through. A few guys in dark suits watch as Bren hustles me along, but no one says anything. We pass through heavy glass doors and onto the street. Bren’s sedan is still running, parked just a few steps away. There’s someone leaning against the passenger door, and for two whole heartbeats, I don’t recognize him.
His face is too bruised . . . both hands are bandaged . . . but then I see the eyes. They’re bottle green and they make my feet stutter against the pavement.
“Griff?”
28
Griff doesn’t respond. He retreats to the sedan’s backseat and I’m grateful for it because he doesn’t see my sudden stumble. My hands reach for him as Bren’s hands reach for me. She pushes me toward the car.
“Bren—”
“Get in.” She shoves me again, only releasing my arm to go around the other side.
“What’s going—”
“Now!”
I haul open the passenger door, throw my bag on the floorboard, and drop into the seat on wobbly legs. I’m barely buckled in before Bren pops the car in drive and floors it. Behind me, there’s the click of Griff’s seat belt and the slide of his jeans against the leather seat. I can’t believe it’s him. I can’t believe—
I turn to prove it to myself and I’m right: It is Griff and his hands are bandaged. We stare at each other and he touches one wrapped-up hand to his wrist like it hurts. I remember the thin skin there, how his heartbeat felt that night he met me at the ambulance. Who hurt him? What happened? I have too many questions and I’m too stunned to ask any of them.
“Are you okay?” Bren asks, making a right at the corner.
I turn to her, try to find an answer. “No . . . are you?”
“No.” Bren yanks the car around another turn and slams on the brakes to wait for a traffic light to change. “I’m sorry I sent you there. I didn’t know what to do.”