34. Chapter Thirty-Four #2
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. “I think she might still be willing to help me…” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I know Sergei pays really well.”
Layla shakes her head lightly. “I already have a job.”
“I know,” I murmur, leaning in as if afraid someone might overhear. “But this could be better. It’s legal… and it won’t require you to…” I trail off, the unspoken words lingering.
“I should get going. I’ve got errands to run.” Layla moves past me, but I grab her with my uninjured arm.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
She stops and turns around. “You’re trying to fix something that doesn’t need fixing.”
“I’m just worried about you.” Anxiety prickles beneath my skin, and my voice cracks. A million worst-case scenarios have been running through my mind since she told me what she’s been up to.
Layla huffs as she passes her soda can from one hand to the other. “You were held at gunpoint and shot, and you’re worried about me?”
“Of course. You’re my best friend.”
Layla doesn’t say anything, but her stance shifts.
The earlier urgency to leave seems to fade, as if my words somehow stitched our friendship back together.
She hands me a few quarters, and we trade places.
After stepping in front of the humming vending machine, I drop in the first few coins, their tinging sound echoing in the quiet.
“Okay, so as my friend, trust my judgment.” She runs her hand through her hair, the auburn strands cascading softly on her shoulders. “When I say I don’t need your help, trust that. I’m perfectly fine taking care of myself.”
I nod before dropping in another quarter, but it only clinks against the coin box. Rubbing it against the metal, I push it in again, and this time it goes through. I click on A6, and the machine makes a jumbling noise, but nothing happens. A message pops up, thanking me for my purchase.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, laughter bubbling up like a foreign language. It reminds me of Misha’s giggles when I tickle him, and my heart aches.
Layla steps closer, her hand reaching my shoulder. “Are you… okay?”
“This…”—I point to the machine, barely managing to catch my breath—“is so…”—I struggle to find the words between laughs—“typical.” I clutch my belly with my unharmed arm, shaking my head.
Of course the machine would dispense Layla’s beverage and glitch on my turn.
The absurdity strikes me to my core, vibrating through my entire body, shaking my belief system.
A week ago, I would have wallowed in the thought that the universe was once again against me, viewing this as another example of my recurring misfortune.
I paid for the beverage like she did, yet she got her soda, and I didn’t.
But now, Layla’s earlier words echo in my mind, finally clicking into place: “The world isn’t just. Shit happens. Life goes on. We get up and keep moving. We do have control over our reactions…”
This isn’t about people not choosing me. Because sometimes they do choose me, and I really wish they didn’t. Because no one wants an overzealous detective to recruit them for undercover work, or a lunatic killer to try and kill them, and yet it happens—it happened.
The universe doesn’t have some evil plan against me. Things simply happen. Sometimes they go my way, and sometimes they don’t. I can collapse in despair and internalize the failures, or… I can pick myself up and move on.
Funny how it took almost dying to finally learn how to live.
The laughter starts to settle as I finally think clearly.
I know my intentions were good. I thought I could help find the person who hurt Alessia and prove that Sergei didn’t do it.
And I guess, in a way, I played a part in how everything unfolded, but that doesn’t change the fact that I made a mistake. Sergei shouldn’t forgive me for that.
He can’t be with me after I betrayed him. He needs to focus on Misha and what’s best for him. Having someone who lied and violated his trust around Misha is just… wrong.
This realization hurts more than getting shot, more than drowning, more than any rejection I’ve ever faced, all crumbled together to deliver a devastating blow to my heart.
But it’s not going to kill me. I’ll survive because that’s life. Life goes on. We get up and keep moving, even if we feel like dying.
Sergei and I are not meant to be. And it’s… okay. I understand now that I need to let him go.
My voice finally dies down as Layla stares at me, perplexed by my sudden fit of hysterics. “Take mine,” she offers.
I reach out for her soda, locking gazes with her. “Thanks.”
When we step back into the main hallway, I spot Daniel standing in front of my room, hands in his pockets, looking like he’s debating whether to knock.
“I’m going to head out,” Layla says from behind me.
“Thank you for coming to see me. Javi stopped by earlier today with a massive balloon, and Connor texted, ‘Glad you’re not dead. Next time, duck.’ For a future politician, he’s surprisingly sparse with words.”
Layla chuckles as she heads toward the elevator.
I turn away from her and look back at Daniel.
A realization creeps in—that maybe Layla’s dislike of him isn’t just on my behalf.
He’s a cop—or was one—and she’s actively involved in illegal activity.
Their exchange at the diner takes on a whole new meaning.
Her name wasn’t on the list by accident. It was her working name, Roxanne.
Does this mean Daniel knows?
Do Javi and Connor know about her job, too? I doubt Javi would care—he might joke and ask if they’re hiring. Connor, on the other hand… I shiver at the thought of his reaction.
“What do you want?” I ask, stepping behind Daniel.
He flinches before quickly composing himself. “I’m here to apologize.”
“What for?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
“Fair enough,” he mutters, following me into my room.
I carefully climb onto the bed while he approaches, stopping at the footrail.
Resting both of his hands against it, he leans toward me.
“I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.” Shame drags across his features as he averts his gaze.
“I was so consumed with figuring out what happened to her.” He swallows hard, still likely finding it hard to talk about his sister.
“So wrapped up in proving it was Sergei that I didn’t care who I hurt in the process. ”
I let him continue, opting to stay silent.
“I shouldn’t have asked for your help and then dismissed your thoughts,” he admits. “And most importantly”—he takes a deep breath—“I’m sorry I shot you.”
“You shot me?” My voice rises in disbelief. I try to calm myself, taking deep breaths. “You shot me?” I repeat, struggling to accept that it was he who pulled the trigger. I had thought it was Anton who did it, and since no one corrected me, I assumed...
Daniel clears his throat. “Yes,” he replies, hiding his hands in his pockets. “Anton was going to shoot you. I had to take that risk. I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t lose someone else.”
“So, you shot me?” I try to conjure up anger, but it never comes.
Instead, I feel numb, like I’ve already spent every emotion I had.
He also looks particularly miserable, with dark circles under his eyes and his beard untrimmed, and despite everything that’s happened, something in me still softens for him.
I let out a long breath. “What happened to Anton? The detective who took my statement didn’t say. ”
“He…” Daniel untucks his right hand and glances down at it. “He was in the hospital for a couple of days after…” The knot at Daniel’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. “He’s in jail now. They’re charging him for the assault, and they’re reopening Alessia’s case.”
“Anton said he killed her. I can testify,” I say, sitting up a bit more. “I can do that.”
He steps closer and takes my hand. “Thank you. I appreciate everything.”
“This feels surreal,” I admit, trying to process it all. “What will happen to you?”
“I have a lot of apologies to make. I’m meeting with my chief to discuss my future as a police officer. We’ll see…” He trails off, and I can only imagine the weight of regret he must be experiencing.
Daniel and I clicked from the moment we met. On some level, we’re very much alike, driven by a deep need to help others and a relentless focus on the task at hand. We’ve both made mistakes that we wish we could take back.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say, offering him a small smile. “And if you ever need an amateur sidekick”—I give him a pointed look—“don’t call me.”