by Elle Maxwell
“I get it,” Marisa says quietly, causing me to swing my eyes back to hers in shock. That was not the reaction I’d been expecting.
“You … get it?” I repeat slowly, my tone incredulous.
“I mean, you fucked up, no doubt about that. But I believe your intentions came from a good place. A naïve, hardheaded place, but a good one.” She tips her lips up in the smallest of smirks, though her eyes are sad.
It almost feels like a physical blow, as though she actually did slap me across the face the way I’d sort of expected her to—and would have almost welcomed. I definitely don’t deserve the rush of relief her words bring.
“You have to tell her everything.”
“Yeah. I will.”
She sighs, looking thoughtful.
“I’ve gotta be honest, I’m not sure if she’ll forgive you.” I nod again, heart sinking even though this isn’t news to me. “And no matter what happens, I have to be on her side. But for the next couple of minutes, I’m on yours, okay? I know all you want is to take care of our girl.”
“Thank you.” My words are uneven, shredded by the sharp edges of my emotions. Then I surprise the shit out of both of us by hugging her. She’s stiff for a second before her much smaller arms wrap around me, like she understands I need this moment of comfort.
Mackenzie returns, wheeled in by the nurse. Marisa immediately rushes up and hugs her, not caring that she has to hunch over awkwardly because of the wheelchair. Mackenzie’s face is paler than I’ve ever seen it as I help her into the bed, expression tight with pain as she settles back against the pillows. Noticing my concern, she gives me a weak smile.
“My head is killing me. The MRI was … loud.” I can tell from the look on her face that she’s downplaying it.
Once the nurse is gone, I leave the girls to have some alone time, telling Mackenzie I’ll be right outside the door if she needs me. I see Sam as soon as I step out, and my mouth tightens grimly. We step to the side so we have a view of the room but will be out of the way of nurses and patients traveling through the hallway. I notice Sam has a bandage on the side of his face, and tip my chin toward it.
“Eli get one in?” I ask.
“This was your girl, actually. Hit me in the face with her keys.”
I think back, and now that I’m not tunnel focused on getting Mackenzie to the hospital, I can recall that Sam had blood running down his face earlier. I can’t help smirking at him a little, proud as hell of Mackenzie and a little glad he didn’t get out of this too easily.
“I talked to my boss,” he tells me after a moment. “He’s calling me off the assignment and tripling your security at no additional cost. He said you can call him whenever you’re ready, no matter the hour.”
I acknowledge his words, slightly appeased. After talking for another minute, ensuring he has no further information, I send him on his way with a handshake (he did save her life, after all) and return to my girl.
While we wait for the doctor to arrive with results from the scans, Marisa goes to find some coffee.
“Apparently the police are coming to talk to me,” Mackenzie says almost as soon as the door closes behind her roommate. “What do I tell them?”
“Whatever you remember.”
“I mean …” Setting down the ice pack she’s been holding to her bruised cheek, she looks up at me. She scans my face with her swollen slightly lopsided gaze. “Is there anything you don’t want me to say?”
I swallow hard and can’t seem to form any words, but I force my eyes to remain locked on hers. I hate the uncertainty and wariness I see there.
“You hired me a bodyguard,” she almost whispers.
“Yes.” The word is a confession, a curse, a plea. My head drops but my eyes don’t leave hers.
“Which means you knew there was something I needed to be guarded from.”
“Yes.”
Sadness and worry war with the pain still apparent in the tight muscles of her face.
“He knew our names. What’s going on, Graham? Can this lead back to you?”
I push aside my own fears about getting the police involved. I don’t want her getting caught up in this, at least, not any more than she already is. And I certainly don’t want her lying to the authorities for me.
“Don’t worry about that. You tell the cops every single thing you remember so they can get the guy that did this to you.” I take a deep breath. Squeeze my eyes closed for a second as remorse threatens to pull me under. Give her the full eye contact she deserves. “I’m so sorry—you have no idea. There are things you need to know, and I promise I’ll tell you everything, anything you want to kn—”
An assertive knock interrupts me. The door to the small room opens, and a guy walks through in a black Boston Police Department uniform he doesn’t look old enough to be wearing. He’s followed by a female cop who’s probably in her mid-thirties. I breathe out through my nose, tamping down my instinctual panic at the sight of them. I remind myself that this isn’t about me. Not yet, at least. Directing my focus where it belongs, I step closer to Mackenzie and give her hand a reassuring squeeze.
I’ll accept whatever comes next. Anything. As long as she is safe.
31. THE PRECIPICE
Mackenzie
The too white walls of this tiny room were not meant to hold four people, especially not when two of them are very large men. The officer who entered first is almost as tall and broad as Graham, and he’s surprisingly young, probably not much older than us. He’s cute in a very clean-cut way, with a smoothly shaven face and closely cropped brown hair that’s a few shades lighter than black. He smiles kindly, a smile that I notice travels all the way up to his blue eyes, and introduces himself as Officer Derek Schwartz. Then his more stoic partner introduces herself as Officer Dean, offering no first name. Her blond hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, tight and flawless without a single hair out of place.
I can sense Graham’s tension as he stands next to me, rigid and unmoving from his position next to my bed. Both officers have already eyed him suspiciously, Officer Dean in particular radiating antagonism from the second she spotted him. It’s been this way all afternoon, everyone immediately assuming my injuries are the result of a domestic abuse situation. It’s understandable, but incredibly frustrating. I’m so tired of repeating myself, continually having to tell every person who enters this room that Graham isn’t the one who hurt me.
After I resist their efforts to send Graham from the room, the cops ask me to tell them what happened earlier. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Going back through the whole encounter is the very last thing I want to do right now. Really, I want everyone to leave me alone so I can close my eyes and sleep. The pounding ache in my head is slightly better than before, a percussion that’s now more of a punk band than a college drumline. But it’s still intense, almost making it hard to hear my own thoughts.
Just get it over with! I tell myself, so I start talking. Graham maintains his place beside me the whole time as I recall the incident. I watch the muscles of his forearm get progressively tighter as I describe what happened, his body nearly vibrating with the effort of restraining his emotions. This is the first time he’s hearing all the details, and it’s probably almost as hard for him to hear as it is for me to relive it.
My heart pounds furiously as I talk, the whole thing replaying vividly in my mind.
His weight pressed into me, trapping me against the car.
The butt of the gun slamming into my face.
The bone jarring impact of my body hitting the driveway.
His ice-cold eyes gleaming with a sickening mix of hatred and excitement.
The knife slicing into me.
“And then there was, uh, a guy who came and scared him away.” I barely manage to keep my eyes away from Graham as I stumble over this part. I suddenly don’t want to mention Sam, though I’m not entirely sure why.
Officer Dean’s eyebrows try to climb up to her hairline.
“A guy?”
“I think he’s one of my neighbors? I live in one of those college neighborhoods, so it’s hard to keep track of everyone. Lots of turnover.” Stop rambling. “Anyway, I called Graham and the guy stayed with me until he got there.”
“Did you get this guy’s name? We should get a witness statement from him to go in our report.” The skeptical way Officer Dean says “this guy” makes it clear she’s not fully convinced by my story.
“No, but I might be able to ask around and see if any of my neighbors know him,” I say noncommittally.
“Why didn’t he call an ambulance? Or the police?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. My shoulders lift in a shrug that I immediately regret when pain flares in the stitched knife wound and travels through my whole arm.
“So, the man who attacked you. Had you ever seen him before?” Officer Schwartz asks. I’m glad he seems to be taking me seriously.
“No.”
“Are you sure?” Officer Dean pushes. She checks the little notepad she’s been scribbling in. “You said you’re getting your Master’s at BC? Could he have been a student in one of your classes?”
“No, I’m sure I would remember that. He knew my name, though. He called me Mackenzie.” Again, I force myself not to look at Graham as I say this.
“Did he give any other indication that he’s familiar with you or your life?”
“No,” I lie.
“I wanted to have some more fun with you. Though I do like the idea of Wyatt finding you here.”
I swallow back nausea at the memory of his voice. I have no doubt that he intended to kill me, and the reason has something to do with the man standing guard next to me. My heart sinks.
Oh, Graham, what have you done?
Officer Dean keeps asking questions, pulling every possible detail out of me about the guy—voice, height, weight, clothing, hairstyle. I feel drained at the end, as though she’s literally sucked me dry in the process of extracting all of those details.
We’re finally done, and I’ve just given them all my contact information in case they need to follow up, when Marisa barges back through the door. She stops short at the sight of our two visitors in their BPD Department uniforms, eyes swinging back and forth between them before landing on Officer Schwartz and staying there.
I watch her eyes widen minutely, the reaction so subtle it wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know her as well as I do. Interesting. I wouldn’t have pegged Derek Schwartz as her type.
There’s a buzzing sound, and Officer Dean bends to pull a phone from her pocket. “I need to take this. Excuse me. Take care, Miss Thatcher. Schwartz, meet me outside in twenty.” She steps out the door and leaves with no further ceremony.
“Marisa Perez. I’m Mackenzie’s roommate and BFF.” My best friend wastes no time stepping right up to Officer Schwartz, hand extended.
His eyes and lips crinkle in a small smile.
“Officer Derek Schwartz,” he replies, taking her hand and shaking it.
“You need to take a statement from me?” she asks.
“Were you there? Do you have any information about what happened?”
“No,” Marisa concedes. “But surely you need something from me?”
I can’t believe she’s shamelessly flirting with a policeman on duty. No, scratch that. I can totally believe it. It’s exactly the kind of crazy thing she’d do. To my surprise, the young officer doesn’t rebuke her, his smile actually widening. As though unable to help himself, his blue eyes track down her form, taking in her dark curly hair and the curves of her body.
“I was getting ready to head downstairs and grab a coffee. Maybe you can walk with me and share any possible insights?”
I glance at the still hot cup of coffee Marisa just brought back with her. She deftly stashes it on the table behind her but then pauses and glances at me in obvious conflict. I wave her off with the icepack still clutched in my right hand, silently encouraging her to go with him. I have no idea how long we’ll be here waiting for those scans to come back.
“Lead the way, Officer Guapo,” she purrs.
“¿Crees que soy guapo?” he asks, smoothly responding to her in Spanish with a perfect accent. You think I’m handsome?
A small laugh bubbles up inside me at Marisa’s shocked face. It’s not every day I see her stunned into silence.
“That was interesting,” Graham comments when they leave. I murmur in agreement. Then we both remain silent for a long moment. The unspoken words hanging between us are deafening in this small space.
I just lied to the police.
“Do you know who he was? The guy who … attacked me?” I finally ask.
I can’t help the flinch that constricts my muscles at the word “attack.” It’s a stark reminder that this is all real and not some dream. Not a horrible thing that happened to someone else. Graham briefly brushes his hand over mine to offer comfort. Then he nods, features heavy as though weighed down by his remorse.
“His name is Eli.”
“Eli,” I repeat. The syllables taste foul on my mouth, and I shudder. Somehow giving him a name makes it all even more real.
We’re interrupted again, this time by the arrival of the doctor. As the gray-haired man talks, my attention is split between his assurances that I can go home tonight and Graham. Every time I look at Graham over the next couple of hours as I’m discharged and we get into his car, I catch him staring at me with a look I’ve never seen before. It is a mask of shame and fear, anger and sadness. It fills me with dread more powerful than I can ever remember experiencing. I can’t quell this overwhelming sensation that we’re balanced on a precipice and any second we’ll tip over the edge. And deep inside me I sense that once we do, everything will change.
* * *
Graham
We check in at a hotel nearby, where I’ve gotten a room for Marisa and one for me and Mackenzie. I don’t want the girls going back home tonight, even with the three new guys from the security company on duty.
When Mackenzie is settled on the huge bed that takes up most of our hotel room, I sit on the edge of the mattress beside her. Bending to rest my elbows on my knees and shoving my hands through my hair, I force myself to breathe through the anxiety trying to choke me. I can’t avoid this talk anymore. I’ve already put it off far longer than I should have.
“So, about Eli—”
She stops me when I’ve barely begun, laying one delicate hand on my forearm.
“Wait,” her soft voice implores. I stare at her in surprise.
“What is it?”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she asks somberly in that same quiet tone.
I nod.
“Will I be mad?”
I nod again.
“Will it change everything?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly, my voice cracking with emotion. Please God, don’t let it change everything.
“I don’t want to know yet, not tonight.”
“Kenz …”
“No,” she argues more forcefully. A single tear escapes from her eyes. “Today has been too hard, and I—I just want to put off reality. At least for a few more hours. We can talk tomorrow. But tonight, I really need you to hold me. Please.”
I look down at her huge imploring eyes after she says the final word in a wavering voice. One of my hands lifts to her face, and I use my thumb to catch another tear. Whether she was putting on a strong front at the hospital or whether everything is just now hitting her, Mackenzie suddenly seems on the verge of crumbling. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s always been so independent, never one to cling or beg, and seeing her vulnerability kills me. And makes me want to kill Eli. My normally unshakeable girl is visibly shaken by what he did to her, and in spite of everything she’s turning to me for strength and comfort. I would die before telling her no.
“Okay, babe. Whatever you need.”
I settle myself back against the pillows and hol
d out my arms for her. She immediately shifts over and curls herself against me. We don’t talk. We simply lie there, and I hold her as she asked. For over an hour I simply soak in her closeness, running my hand through her silky hair and down her back over and over. I try to commit this moment to memory, wanting to make every second count, this time an unexpected gift that I don’t deserve. I think she’s asleep, so it surprises me when she suddenly speaks.
“Graham?”
“Yeah?”
“Make love to me?”
