Page 48

Z: Yes.

My grip on the phone tightened. I was getting ready to excuse myself when another text came through.

Z: I miss you.

Jerk.

Me: That’s not an emergency.

Z: Sure it is. My heart hurts whenever you’re not here.

Oh. My. God. Flirting via text message? His romantic overtures knew no bounds. Not that I’d tell him to stop. I loved the way he loved me.

“What’s got the dopey look on your face?” My sister interrupted my swoonfest. “Are you sexting with your hot gangster?”

“No.”

“You sure?” She pushed, so I flipped the phone around to show them what he’d sent.

“Wow.” Lennon fanned herself.

“Right? How am I supposed to respond to something so sweet?”

Apparently, I waited too long.

Z: Sorry, baby.

Me: No need for sorry. I miss you too.

Z: Glad to hear it.

Z: Take your time. Have fun with your girls, but let me know when you’re on the way back.

Me: Do you want me to bring you anything?

Z: No. Just you.

The girls and I spent another half an hour discussing the shelter’s upcoming fundraiser. No surprise, it had been Lennon’s idea to have a spaghetti dinner. They’d sold over two hundred tickets so far and were anticipating a large crowd of walk-ins at the door. Daria and I offered to help with prep work in the kitchen the night before, and I might have also volunteered Zak and the boys to do the bulk of the heavy lifting. The tables and chairs wouldn’t move themselves.

After saying goodbye, I headed toward Maryland Avenue. The air was thick with the salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean and something else, something that made me feel exposed on the crowded sidewalk. I picked up the pace, moving as fast as my prosthesis would allow, which still seemed too slow. Halfway to my destination, I couldn’t shake the strange sensation. My head was on a swivel, trying to find the cause of my distress, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Just when I was about to step down off the curb into the crosswalk, a chill snaked down my spine. That was the only warning I got before pain exploded in the back of my head. My vision blurred and my world tilted sideways, sending me crashing onto the unforgiving pavement below. I barely had time to register what happened before a dreadfully familiar voice growled in my ear, “It’s not over, cyka.” Then he was gone.

Footsteps rushed toward me. Numerous bystanders were asking me if I was okay. I ignored their worried voices, focusing instead on taking several deep breaths in an effort to keep my lunch from making a comeback.

He was supposed to be dead.

Why wasn’t he dead?

When the nausea was under control, I probed the back of my head with my fingers, whimpering softly when they encountered something warm and sticky. Blood. My left hip was also aching, since it took the brunt of my fall. I shifted slightly.

“Fuck. Don’t move, Miss Turner. An ambulance is on the way.”

I looked up at the man standing over me, squinting against the bright sunlight. He was tall––well over six feet––with white-blonde hair and tanned skin, like half his day was spent at the beach.

“Do I know you?” My voice sounded far away.

His eyes went wide. “Shit. I’m dead.”