“I love you.” Grams gathered my hair at the nape of my neck. “I always wanted a daughter, but God only gave me your father. I messed up with him. Let his father have too much of a say, but things will be different for you, Abby. Your path will be brighter.”

She pulled the brush under my hair and I closed my eyes, loving the feeling, adoring the contact. This was our ritual night after night until her mind slowly began to disintegrate. “Daddy told me that smart businesspeople stay unattached. What does unattached mean?” I was eight and I wanted my father to think I understood everything he said, even when I didn’t.

Gram paused. Her brush in one hand, my hair in the other. “It means your father is sad even when he doesn’t have to be. Don’t worry about business. Just worry about finding happiness.”

“Your grandmother is right.” My heart soared when I spotted my father cocking a hip against the door frame. “You focus on happy. I’ll take care of the bad.”

“Promise?” I asked.

“Promise. And unlike my dad, I plan on sticking around to take care of you.” Dad’s gaze wandered past me to Grams. “To take care of both of you.”

I open my eyes and Dad’s not there. Neither is Grams. So much for sticking around, but then again, I would be the reason my father is in jail. He kept his promise. Dad protected me and that promise landed him in prison.

I blink away the guilt. Emotion over something I can’t change won’t rewrite the past.

A scan of the room and I assess the situation. Mac was here, but then he was gone. Noah’s been here, working on homework, struggling to break free from the streets with a college degree. West’s been here, as well. Typing on his phone, watching footage of opponents for his upcoming fights. And then there’s Isaiah. The room’s quiet then. Too quiet. Him looking out the window. Standing in the doorway. Mentally replaying how we met, why he owes me...why he likes me.

Is this moment real or another dream?

“Have you heard from Logan?” My voice comes out as a squeak and I try to clear it. Mac said there was a breathing tube—when I was first admitted—and my throat is now raw.

Footsteps, Isaiah spins and Logan appears with two plastic grocery bags in his hands. He stares at me, I stare at him and I suck in a breath. Partially in relief. Partially in dread.

“Did you get some rest?” Isaiah asks.

The two of them share a long look and Logan nods. “I’m ready for my shift.”

“Got yourself figured out?”

“Enough.”

Great, they’re speaking in code. “English, boys. Preferably full sentences with nouns and verbs. They teach it in school. Every year. No matter how much it blows.”

Isaiah’s mouth twitches up as he lifts his chin at me in goodbye, I repeat the gesture back, and he leaves me and Logan alone.

Logan raises his eyebrows at me and there’s that condescending, piss-ass expression on that handsome face that draws me in. For the first time since I was wheeled out of Recovery, I feel the first spark of energy that’s a semblance of me.

“You had a stuffed Barney.”

Fucking purple dinosaur. I should never have kept the singing menace or the picture of me holding him on the fridge. “It’s all lies. It was forced upon me in a moment of weakness.”

Logan pulls the chair Linus had sat in toward the bed and drops into it. “Have you slept?”

“I’ve been trying to stay awake.” It’s killing my pride to rely on Logan. To rely on anyone. “She okay?”

Logan grants me the decency of not dragging it out. “Yeah. She’s good. Alzheimer’s?”

“Yep.” And it feels like I should say something else. Something momentous. Something insightful. “It sucks.”

He readjusts the baseball cap on his head and leans forward to rest his arms on his knees. I hate that I made the two of us serious, but guess that was unavoidable.

“Thank you.”

Logan lifts his head and those gorgeous dark eyes land on me. Deep pools of warmth. “I’ve got a million questions.”

And I have no answers. “I’m tired.”

“I know.” The bags crackle as he peers into them. “Rachel and I went to the store and bought you some stuff. PJ’s, toothbrush, hairbrush. Other personal stuff. Rachel bought you a crossword book, but I thought you’d like sudoku.”

My throat tightens and I have to physically shift to get my emotions in check. Damn getting shot making me damn emotional. “You’re not going to ask?”

Logan pauses with the bag still open. “Yeah, but not now.”

I wish he could crawl inside my mind and understand how grateful I am, but my mind’s a frightening place, the playland for fallen angels so he’s safer away from me. “You’re in danger.” Because that’s a way to say thank you.

Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shout how or why, doesn’t react much. Just does that indifferent stare that causes the wild in me to grin. God, he really is crazy and I hate that I like him so much.

“I’m serious,” I say. “And while I’m on subjects of serious, what the hell were you thinking running after me? You should have done what I said, and stayed in your truck.”

“Abby,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” I mimic his tone, even trying to throw in his slight country twang.

That grants me an amused glint. “Thought I made it clear. We’re not talking about it now.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to decipher his game, but then decide I’m too tired to overly care. “Fine.”

“But before we completely drop it—”

I roll my eyes, because here we go...

“How am I in danger? Did he see me?”

Logan doesn’t have to mention he’s asking about the guy who shot me. “I don’t know. We don’t think so. Word on the street is that they know there was a witness, but they don’t know who. Can you describe him to me?”

He does and my stomach fills with cement when no matter what I ask, he gives me nothing that separates my shooter from half the guys I go to school with.

“I’ll know him if I see him.” Logan dips his head as if he’s sorry he has nothing else to offer.

“I’m scared he’ll know you if he sees you, too.” My thoughts are too slow and I can’t afford this delay and I discover myself thinking out loud. “Linus wants to use you. He thinks there’s a traitor on our side, and he thinks the traitor is associated with my shooter. Linus wants to use you to find my shooter and our traitor.”

Logan settles back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you think?”

I briefly close my eyes, hating the ache inside. “I think you should go to the police and tell them the truth. Someone shot me and I don’t know who I can trust, which means I don’t know how to protect you.”

Logan stays silent, and each second that passes creates a heavy weight on my chest. “Are you still in danger?” he asks.

It would be bad to admit how much of an excellent question that is and how jacked-up my mind is that I didn’t bother asking Linus that. I sigh. That’s wrong. I know the answer. I’ve always known the answer.

Living this life means being under a constant threat, and not only me, but the people I care about. Linus is right. Friendships outside this life are wrong. It’s selfish.

“You should go.”

Logan’s eyes flicker over my face, but other than that—no movement.

“I said you should go.” I push some heat into my voice.

He lazily shrugs one shoulder. “You said should. That suggests choice.”

“That was me being nice so I’ll try again—go.”

“No.”

No? My back practically arches like a ticked-off cat’s. Did he just tell me no? “I’ll scream. I’ll tell them to get security. I’ll tell them you’re a serial killer.”

“Okay.”

I blink. Yeah—I was totally bluffing. I could do that to most people, but not to him. “Logan!”

“Abby,” he mocks my frustration.

I growl and slam my fist against the bed. “I should never have become your friend. I should have never become Rachel’s friend or West’s friend. I should have never let any of you in and now I have to live with the consequences that I put you in danger and that you’re still in danger and that really pisses me off.”

Logan smiles. Smiles. It’s a shit-eating, I’m-going-to-kill-him-the-moment-I-yank-this-IV-out-of-my-arm smile. “Why are you smiling?”

His grin only grows. “You said we’re friends.”

Oh. My. God. That’s what he heard? “You are crazy.”

“Yeah, I am. This is how it’s going to be—your friends are going to watch over you, you’re going to get better and we’re going to figure out who shot you.”

I’m shaking my head. “There’s no we’re.”

“There is.” He rubs his hands together and I know that motion—he’s buying himself time. “You and I have been a we’re for a while.”

Fear sprints through my veins. “I hate you.”