George stares at her for a few moments and then he sneers, “You ungrateful little snot. I just saved your ass—”

“Now hold on a minute,” I growl, stepping toward George, shotgun be damned. “Watch how you talk to her.”

Rowan lays a hand on my arm to stop me. “No, I want to hear what he has to say. So say it, George.”

My heart actually lurches, because I can tell by the tone of Rowan’s voice, that George is getting ready to say something that’s going to hurt her. It lurches because Rowan doesn’t have to stick around and listen to it. I’m more than willing to leave with her right now. But for some reason, she’s going to take her lumps and listen to what the old man has to say.

George takes a deep breath and lets it out. His voice is extremely gentle when he says, “Rowan... I know how you feel about cops, but we have to involve them. I know you don’t like it, but think about others for a change. By defending you, I probably just signed my own death warrant. You don’t think Juice isn’t going to come back and demand a little vengeance for my interference? And what about your fella there? You saw the way Juice looked at him. He’s as good as dead, too. You may not need the cops help, but I do. And you two are my witnesses to what just went down here.”

Oh, man, I never even thought of it that way, and I’m sure Rowan didn’t either, judging by the stricken look on her face. I have a feeling George is completely right about this but I’m not going to make Rowan do something she doesn’t want to do. I promised her early on we wouldn’t involve the police if she didn’t want and I’m not about to go back on that promise.

“It’s okay, Rowan. I can handle myself, and I’m sure George can, too.” I grab her hand and start pulling her down the street, while George looks after us sadly. She moves along with me passively for a few steps, then she digs her heels in and stops.

“No, wait.”

I look down at Rowan and she’s scared... I can tell. I reach up, running a thumb down her cheek, and her eyes close from my soft touch.

“We don’t have to do this,” I assure her.

She shakes her head and opens her eyes, pinning me with resolve. “Yes, I do. It’s the right thing and until Juice is in custody, none of us are safe. If it were just me, I wouldn’t do it. But I’m not going to put you and George at risk.”

Releasing my hand, she walks back toward George while she pulls her own phone out. To my surprise, she also pulls out the card that Buzz had given her a few days ago. Giving me a small smile, she turns her phone on and dials.

11

I pace back and forth down the hallway, pausing every few seconds to listen at the bathroom door.

I’m waiting for Flynn to get out of the shower, waiting for him to fully understand the fucked-up craziness that is my life and boot me out of his apartment. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I’d completely understand.

When we got to his apartment, he didn’t say anything other than a curt, “I’m going to take a shower,” and then he disappeared into the bathroom. That was ten minutes ago and he should be out soon.

I can’t believe I almost got him killed. And George for that matter. I’m like a poison to those around me, and had it not been for George pointing out the danger I put him in, I would have never relented to calling the cops. But now that it’s done, I’m glad.

Detective Matheson arrived fairly quickly, along with another detective whose name I didn’t catch. He interviewed George first, and then Flynn.

He took Flynn’s statement, not only about what happened in front of Zeke’s, but also about my rescue from the fire. I sat there and listened to him as he recounted everything in an extremely organized and linear fashion. As I watched him talk, I literally watched as a bruise appeared on his temple. Once, he raised his right arm to rake his hand through his hair, and I saw his elbow was bloody. My chest actually cramped over the thought that Flynn got battered in an effort to defend me.

When it was my turn, he asked if I wanted to do the interview in private. I shook my head no, not quite having the courage to say out loud that I wanted Flynn there. It was a comfort that he sat beside me—not even touching—but just his presence was palpable.

Detective Matheson’s questions were straight and to the point. He only had to interrupt me twice for clarification, but otherwise let me tell the story I wanted

Yes, I said. I had been dating Teddy “Juice” Jones for over a year. I moved in with him about eleven months ago.

Yes, I said. I had wanted out of the relationship and tried to leave the house with Capone. I hadn’t made it down the front porch steps before his hand grabbed me, pulling me back in. He chained me to the bed and when I wouldn’t stop screaming for him to let me go, he injected me with some type of drug to keep me quiet. I believed he kept me there for three days, naked and chained, only allowing me to go to the bathroom a few times a day. He never touched me sexually during that time and was hardly ever around.

No, I admitted. I wasn’t sure that Juice was the one that started the fire. Without giving away names, I heard through the grapevine that Juice had been upset about the fire and said he knew who did it and would make them pay.

No, I concluded. I had nothing else to add.

My words seem to be enough for Detective Matheson because he didn’t push me further, although he said he might be back in touch with more questions. To my relief, he told me that he felt there was enough based on my statement for probable cause to arrest him—at least for the kidnapping charges.

The only other thing he did was encourage Flynn to get some medical attention, but Flynn declined. He said he was fine, but I know he wasn’t. We walked back to the train in silence. He rested with his head against the window and his eyes closed for the entire ride back to his neighborhood.

And other than his short announcement that he was going to take a shower, there hasn’t been any other conversation. I feel nauseated over it because I’m seeing my first real opportunity at a friendship starting to circle the drain. Why would someone like Flynn even want to have a freak of a friend like me? I’m sure none of his other friends have psycho kidnapping, drug-dealing ex-boyfriends stalking them.