“Excuse me?”

“He tried to kill you.”

She stands up slowly, her spine rigid and shoulders back. “But he didn’t. And it’s my case.”

“They’ll assign another prosecutor.”

“No—they won’t. Because I won’t let them. Moriotti is trying to scare me away, and I’m not going to let him. He doesn’t get to take this from me.”

My fingers press against my temples, and my voice rises. “Holy shit, Kennedy—he’s not a schoolyard bully—he’s a goddamn psychopath, with the means and motive to put a bullet in you. And you’re going to walk into his territory to give him the opportunity? Why don’t you just draw a bull’s-eye on your forehead!”

I must sound as panicked as I feel, because her posture softens. Her voice fills with calming sympathy. “It’ll be okay.”

She reaches out to stroke my forehead, but I jerk it away.

“You don’t know that! Fucked-up things happen all the time!” I point to Sofia. “She was in a plane crash, did you know that? With her whole family—and it was just dumb luck that they didn’t die.” I gesture to Chelsea. “And Chelsea’s brother, he and his wife were just driving home and they were killed, Kennedy. They had six kids who needed them, and they died.”

I rub the back of my neck, scrub my hand over my face, trying not to totally lose it. “And I was just a kid; a dumb kid who got his leg ripped off for no reason at all. Bad things happen even when you’re careful—even when you don’t deserve them.”

“This is my job, Brent.”

“It’s a job you don’t need! You have more money in your trust fund right now than you’ll ever make as a prosecutor.”

“That doesn’t matter—”

My voice drops lower. “I get that—I do. You took this job because you needed a purpose. A reason to get out of bed every day.” I grip her shoulders, bend my knees and look into her eyes. “But you have me now. We can be each other’s reasons.”

She gazes at me like I’m breaking her heart. No—like her heart is breaking for me.

There’s a difference.

“You are my reason. And all I want in the whole world is to be yours.” Kennedy puts her hand right on top of my heart. “But I have to see this through.”

Goddamn it!

Something in me fucking snaps, because she’s not listening. She’s too damn stubborn. Too fucking fearless. And if I can’t change her mind—it could get her killed.

“If you go, we’re done,” I say coldly.

“Brent—” Jake warns, but I throw up my hand.

Kennedy flinches. Then she searches my face, hunting for a sign that I’m bluffing. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I fucking do. I’m not going to sit here and drive myself crazy worrying about you. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life mourning you after you get yourself killed. You do this, we’re fucking done.”

A small faraway voice that sounds suspiciously like Waldo whispers that this is wrong. Manipulative. But I tell him to go screw himself, ’cause I’m doing this to keep her safe.

“I’ve made promises to people, Brent.”

Her expression is weighted with hurt. Maybe even a little fear. Like I haven’t just dented her armor, but wedged a crowbar in there and cracked it wide open, exposing all her most vulnerable parts.

But I’m not going to feel bad about that.

“Then break them. Promises are broken every damn day—it’s the way of the world.”

“There are witnesses who have risked their lives to testify against Moriotti. Who’ve gone into Witness Protection and given up everything, because I held their hand and told them it was the right thing to do. Because I swore I would put him away. And now . . . you just want me to turn my back because things are getting a little uncomfortable?”

My face feels hard, frozen—an ice sculpture image of myself. “Yes. I want you to turn your back and run the other way.”

She shakes her head softly. “I can’t . . . I can’t believe you’re making me choose.”

“Well, I am. And if that makes me an asshole, I don’t give a shit.” My fingers squeeze her upper arms. “I’m asking you to choose, and I am begging you . . . to pick me.”

The entire room goes quiet. I don’t think anyone even fucking breathes.

Then Kennedy cups my jaw in both her hands. And her voice is hushed—the way you’d talk at a funeral. “I love you, Brent. I really love you, and I know you love me. But I won’t be the woman you love anymore if I don’t do this. And if we can just—”

I don’t hear another word after that. Because I’m already walking out the door, slamming it behind me, leaving the frame splintered.

I wander the city for an hour—or three—because I’m afraid of what I’ll say to her if I go back too soon. But when I finally do make it back, I don’t have to worry about that.

The house is dark. Empty.

She’s gone.

20

“How fucked up is that?”

Early the next morning, Waldo’s eyes follow me like a spectator at Wimbledon as I pace back and forth in front of his couch, recounting my argument with Kennedy word for word. I barely slept last night—I was too busy replaying it in my head. And waiting for her to call. To tell me that she’s come over to my side of sanity and she’s dropping the case.