He looks at me now, and it’s like being caught in a sniper’s scope. “You made your choice. There’s nothing left to say. All this? Us? It’s over.”
My hand is numb. My whole body is. And I think it will stay that way until he touches me again. If he ever does.
“Please,” I whimper. “Roman, just listen to me, okay? I didn’t know then, but I do now. Iknowwhat you’re—we’re—doing is right. Please, just let me prove it to you. Let me prove that you can trust me. Because youcan.I’ll do anything?—”
“No,” he says, a slap in one syllable. “Get out.”
I could refuse. I could tell him that if he wants me out of this car, he’ll have to pull me out. Maybe if I could get him to touch me, he’d feel it again. Whatever drew us to each other in the first place has to still be there, somewhere. In him.
Because lord knows it’s still in me.
But I don’t fight.
I get out, legs barely holding me up. I slam the door behind me, but the sound is swallowed by the city.
Roman peels away before I can turn around.
I stand on the curb, shaking, and watch the taillights disappear.
It’s over.
I lost him.
I lost everything.
And I fucking scream.
I do it right there on the sidewalk, in front of the whole goddamn world. It rips through me, a lightning strike that should cremate me.
Some old guy walking his dog jerks the leash and scurries off. I don’t give a shit.
I scream until my throat is raw, until I taste metal and I know Roman must have heard me before making that last turn onto the highway.
Then I go inside.
It’s the first time I’ve stepped foot in this apartment in weeks, and it feels like a tomb. The air is stale, like memory and failure. There’s dust on the counter, laundry on the floor, an empty bottle by the couch. Serena’s photo, still facing away.
Because I’m too much of a fucking coward to make the world good enough for her to look at it again.
I think about Roman. About the way his hands used to anchor me, the heat of his breath against my skin. I let him in, let myself believe that we could be more than a body count and a funeral dirge.Stupid.
I think about Serena and how close I was to finally burning it all down for her. Now it’s gone. The mission, the man, the goddamn meaning.
I want to call someone. Ida. Maybe even Teddy. But what would I say? That I ruined everything? That the only person who ever really saw me just left, and he was right to?
That now I have to go back to shoving the darkest parts of me down, zip myself up so tight it hurts, pretend I’m not so full of wrath that my only release comes with blood?
I can’t just go back to the precinct and act like I didn’t getthisfucking close to everything I ever needed.
It’s not fair. I shouldn’t have to lose Romanandmy chance to get justice for Serena on the same goddamn night.
And it’s all my own goddamn fucking fault.
I go to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face. It doesn’t help.
The woman in the mirror is someone I hate. Someone who never learns, who keeps finding new ways to kill everything she loves.
“I’m not done,” I tell her.
