God, Logan. How could I face him now? Even if he were alive, how could I face him? How could I go to him and tell him that I allowed you tofuck meyet again, after what Logan and I shared?
Was that fucking, between you and me, Caleb?
No; it was something else. I don’t know what. Something raw and ragged and desperate.
Wrong.
Yet... it was more real and honest than any other moment I’ve ever spent in your presence.
But Logan. Logan. I fall into renewed sobs at the thought of him—
I don’t fall easy, Isabel. But when I do, I fall hard and fast.
There’s no going back for me now—
I can hear his voice, almost. I can see the light in his indigo eyes as he gazes at me. The brilliance of his easy smile.
And I hear my own words, my promise to him—You are my path, Logan.
I am a horrible, weak, despicable person.
I have no path. Only a road paved with sins and scars and pain and mistakes.
But yet, I do not give in.
I cannot.
Will not.
Some internal compulsion has me leaving the bed. Washing you from my body. Tying my damp hair into a knot at my nape, and dressing in the clothes I began the day with, an expensive dress, the sleeves ripped off, neckline torn open to reveal a little too much cleavage.
Slip my feet into a pair of heels.
I do not know what is driving me.
But I am leaving the building. Ignoring the eyes as I push through the revolving door and out onto the street. The voices wash over me, the rush of cars, the horns, the groan of engines. But I am not brought to my knees by panic.
I see a car idling at the curb a few dozen yards away, window open. A white car with lights on top; NYPD. I lean into to the open passenger window.
“Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me where the nearest hospital is?”
The man within, the police officer, is older, portly, graying. “St. Vincent. Eighth and Thirty-fourth.” Gruffly, impolite.
“Thank you, officer.” I turn away, start walking.
“Hey!” The officer’s voice calls out. I glance back, and he’s pointing from the window in the opposite direction. “You’re goin’ the wrong way, sweetheart.”
I find my way to St. Vincent. The woman behind the reception counter is young, Hispanic, in scrubs.
“I’m looking for someone who might be a patient here. Logan Ryder.”
The woman says nothing, just taps at a keyboard, eyes flicking across the screen. “Nope. Sorry.”
“Anyone with a gunshot wound admitted last night?”
Tap-tap-tap-tap . . .“Nope. Sorry.”
I think back, and realize he wouldn’t be here. This is the closest hospital to me, not to where we were when Logan was shot.
