Chapter Fourteen
Evan
I wake up to the sun slashing through Molly’s bedroom like it’s got something to prove, stripes of gold and white cutting across the walls, and Molly herself sprawled over my chest, one bare leg thrown across my hips like she’s staked a claim.
The clock on her nightstand says it’s too early, but I can’t remember the last time I woke up like this, feeling sore in a way that means something, Molly’s hair a red snarl on my chest, freckles scattered like a map leading nowhere good.
Her skin is warm where it touches mine, but her hand trapped beneath my ribs is cold, her fingers curled into a fist. She’s not dreaming, exactly — just floating somewhere safe.
For a moment, I let myself believe I belong here.
Then my phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
I freeze because nothing good ever calls you back to reality gently.
I slip my arm from beneath Molly’s body with surgical precision, slow enough that she squirms but doesn’t wake.
She just burrows deeper into the pillow and lets out a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh — a sound you’d never know she could make unless you’d slept beside her, unless you’d seen how soft her armor goes when she thinks no one’s watching.
I grab my phone in my fist like it’s a live grenade and slip out of the bedroom. I stand in the living room and tap open the message. The harsh white of the screen makes my eyes sting.
It’s a photo, the kind you can’t unsee: June.
My sister. Tied to a chair, hands lashed behind her spine with what looks like ripped phone cord.
A rag forced between her lips, eyes swollen nearly shut.
Her left hand is curled the way it always is when she's trying not to cry — thumb tucked inside her fist, the way she's done it since she was small.
Bruises ring her wrists and jaw, ugly and familiar in a way that makes me want to throw the phone through the window.
The message under it: Hurry up.
I stare at the message until my jaw aches from clenching. For a minute, I forget I’m standing in Molly’s apartment — forget there’s anyone but me and the phone and the cold, hollow space where my insides used to be.
How much longer does she have? How long before Midnight and his men tire of the waiting, of the leverage game, and decide to see what other parts of June break?
I think about her as a kid, about the way she’d throw arms around my neck and shriek when I tossed her into the lake, about the scar on her knee from when I dared her to climb the steel fence behind our first apartment.
I lower my phone and stare at my reflection in the dark glass of Molly’s balcony door. I look like a man who deserves to rot.
I want to go back into the bedroom, crawl under the sheets and press myself against Molly’s back, lose myself in the slow, messy tangle of her.
Pretend I have a day where nothing worse is coming.
But I don’t trust what will happen if she wakes up and sees my face like this.
I don’t trust myself not to tell her everything, and the whole point of all this was to escape, not to shatter each other’s lives before the sun even rises.
I need water. Or sleep. Or a punch to the head, frankly.
I head for her bathroom because I need to scrub away the sick sensations that crawl across my skin every time I think about June.
I turn the shower on.
The pipes rattle and shudder, and then the nozzle spits a jet of ice-water strong enough to startle me. I let it run, half-expecting the heater to catch, to warm up, but nothing changes.
I shove my hand under the stream anyway and flinch. “Jesus.”
No steam. No warmth. Just a constant, punishing rush of ice.
I twist the handle hotter.
Nothing.
The cold stays.
I stare at the showerhead like it personally insulted me, then my eyes drift to the cheap shampoo bottle, the towel hung just-so, the little details of a life built on stubborn survival.
And suddenly it hits me.
She’s been living like this since the night she asked to use my shower.
Shift after shift, with school on top of it. Every time coming home sore and exhausted and still too damn proud to ask anyone for help.
A laugh tries to scrape out of my throat, but it dies halfway. It isn’t funny.
It’s Molly. Every bit of this rusted, frigid plumbing mess is exactly her. She’d rather freeze than owe someone.
Something in my chest pulls tight as I’m overtaken by an ugly, unwanted urge.
I have to take care of her. Fix it. Make it easier.
Give her one goddamn comfort that doesn’t come with a price tag.
It won’t make things right between us for what I’m going to do to her, but at least it’ll give both of us a little bit of ease before our worlds fall apart.
And she deserves it. She deserves so much more good than life has given her.
Then I clamp down hard on the feeling because caring is a liability, and liabilities get you killed. Or worse — they get June killed.
I shut the shower off, jaw set.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself. “I’m not doing this just for her. I want a hot shower too.”
It’s a lie, and it isn’t.
I can't fix what's coming. I can fix this. It isn't enough, but I’ll do it anyway.
I move fast.
Back into the hall. Across to my apartment. In and out like I’ve done this a thousand times; I grab my toolbox from the closet, my wrench set, a flashlight, and everything else I’ll need.
I’m back in Molly’s place in under a minute.
The water heater closet is off her kitchen, tucked behind a flimsy panel like the building itself is embarrassed by it. I pop the latch, crouch down, and get to work.
The thing is ancient. There is mineral buildup everywhere, so much so that this damn thing is half rock. With a lot of time, effort, and a bit of luck, I find the culprit: a connection that looks like it’s been held together by spite and wishful thinking.
I’m elbow-deep in it when I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me, followed by a beat of silence.
Then Molly’s voice slices through the room, sharp with sleep and suspicion and that steel she wears like perfume. I look up to see her standing there, arms crossed, eyes as sharp as broken glass.
“What the hell are you doing?”