The bowl is empty.
I do not like this. Logan never just leaves. At the very least, he leaves a note, telling me where he’ll be. Or he sends me a text to read. My phone is plugged in on the kitchen counter; there are no messages.
I take my phone off the charger, slip my feet into a pair of flats, and move in a near-run out the front door. To the elevator,down to the parking garage. Our reserved spot is empty, but I see Logan’s G63 heading for the exit.
I run. Flat-out sprinting, even though I’m wearing neither bra nor underwear. I catch up as he stops at the exit, checking traffic. Smack my palm to the back window. He was just beginning to accelerate, slams on the brakes. I hear the locks disengage, a loudchunk-chunk. Open the door, slide in, close the door, buckle the seat belt.
A moment of silence, unmoving in the exit.
“Goddammit, Is, you’re supposed to be sleeping,” he breathes. “You need to go back home. Now.”
“No.” I glance at him.
He is dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt as earlier, but now has tied his hair back and put on a Blackwater ball cap. There is a pistol on his lap, huge and black.
“What are you doing, Logan?”
He pulls out into traffic. Doesn’t answer for a long time, a couple of miles at least. “Ending this, once and for all.”
“I walked away, Logan. Heletme. He brought me back.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s done with you.”
“You weren’t there, Logan.” I touch his bicep; his gaze remains focused on the road. “That was the end of it. It’s over.”
“He put his hands on you.” Logan reaches out, glances at me, touches the bruises on my throat. “He left marks on you. Your voice is hoarse.”
“Yes, but he let go. He let go of me, and helet me go. It can be over.”
Logan doesn’t respond. He heard me, but he is determined to do this.
A mile. Two. Three. We’re heading to midtown, to Caleb’s high-rise.
“Logan, please.”
“You’repregnant, Isabel.” We’re stopped at a red light; he turns, and venomous rage is written in every line of his expression. “He kidnapped you off my motherfuckingroof in broad daylight. He shot my dog with a tranquilizer. Hechokedyou. I have tried like fucking hell to let this be between you two, to let you handle it your way. I’ve tried to stay out of it. I haven’t even tried to get even for the fact that he tried to kill me, and took my eye in the process. I can handle that shit. Revenge isn’t my style, Isabel, but when you fuck with my home, my dog, and my woman in one move... you donotget to just walk away unscathed.” He is quiet, his rage is a fierce, hot flame, all the more terrifying for the fact that he is utterly calm.
Back to silence, one hand on the wheel, knuckles tight, jaw flexing and tensing, the other hand on his pistol, thumb flipping the safety off and back on, over and over and over, finger lying along the outside of the trigger guard.
He brakes to a rough halt outside Caleb’s building, tires barking as he parks in a clearly labeled no-parking zone. He doesn’t seem to care.
“Stay here.”
“Logan, I’m not going to let you—”
His expression silences me. This is a side of Logan Ryder I’ve never seen before, and it scares me. “Isabel, I will only say this one more time: stay... theFUCK... here.”
I stay. But I can see the lobby of the building through the glass doors. I watch as Logan exits the SUV, gun held tight to his thigh. His stride as he shoves through the revolving door is liquid, smooth, determined. I watch as he stalks across the gaping lobby, and I watch as he spots Len leaving the private elevator. I watch as Logan levels the pistol at Len, from less than five feet away. The few people in the lobby scatter, fleeing out the doors. I can see both men, Logan and Len. Logan has the pistolagainst Len’s forehead. I see Len’s mouth move, answering whatever question Logan asked:Where is he?
Logan backs away, lowers the pistol.
I see it in slow motion.
Len reaches into his suit coat. Withdraws the most massive handgun I’ve ever seen, a long-barreled silver thing with a black handle, a handgun large enough to be a cannon. Logan is walking away, gun at his thigh once more. Not hidden, but not obvious unless you’re looking.
I see Len’s arm go up. The hand cannon is level with Logan’s skull. I am screaming, I think. I don’t know. Even from this distance I can see the moment when Len’s finger slides inside the trigger guard, and the moment when a thick index finger squeezes the trigger.
Flames belch. The concussion is like thunder, even through the doors of the building and the insulated interior of the Mercedes.
