Chapter 15 Willow #2
I push the easel with my shoulder. It groans across the floor and throws a slice of canvas into Justin’s line of sight. He flinches and fires. The bullet tears through the edge of the painting and buries in the wall.
Cast crashes in. He clamps Justin’s wrist with both hands and leans in with his whole body. Bones grind. Justin screams through his teeth. The gun wobbles inches from Vincent’s chest.
Vincent draws. The motion is clean and close to his body. He fires once.
The sound cracks the room wide open. Justin’s body jerks. The gun falls. He sits back like the strength runs out of his frame and slides to the floor. His eyes look at the ceiling, then at nothing.
Silence floods in. A powder haze hangs low. The smell changes—burned metal, old paint, wet concrete.
Cast keeps his hands on Justin’s wrist for three beats, four, before he lets go. He kicks the gun under the table with the side of his boot. He crouches, puts two fingers under Justin’s jaw, waits. He stands, presses his palm against his side where the blade got him, breath steady.
Vincent lowers his pistol, sets the safety, and puts it on the workbench. His hands shake once. He stops them on the edge of the table. He looks at me.
I try to stand. My knee buckles. He crosses the space and catches me under the arms. The fabric of his coat is damp and cold. His chest is warm through his shirt.
“I’ve got you,” he says. His voice is rough.
Cast tears a clean rag from a nail, tosses it to Vincent, and pulls another for his side. Vincent wraps my bleeding wrist tight. Pressure steadies the sting.
“Hold this,” he says.
I hold. Blood seeps into the cloth and slows.
Cast checks the room: the stairwell, the window well, the corners behind shelves. He listens. Only the faint wind outside and the tick from a pipe answer.
Vincent looks at Justin’s body and looks away. “We have to leave,” he says.
“We will,” Cast replies. He pulls open a drawer, takes tape and gauze, and peels his shirt back enough to see the gash. It’s shallow and long. He presses the gauze down, tapes it fast, tests his breath. His face doesn’t change.
He goes to the lamp and flips the switch. Yellow light spreads across the floor, illuminating the sprinkle of dust in the air. Justin lies still, one hand open, palm up. Cash covers the concrete around him in loose piles and broken stacks.
Vincent’s gaze catches on the canvas. The bullet hole splits through the top corner like a wound, tearing across the raw paint.
The face—mine, half-formed and streaked with wet color—stares back at him.
The glint of crimson in the brushstrokes looks too close to real.
He freezes, breath faltering, like he hadn’t meant to look, like seeing it costs him something.
“Can you walk?” Cast asks quietly.
“I can try,” I whisper.
The floor sways when I shift my weight. My bare foot meets a scatter of glass, and pain sparks sharp up my leg. I flinch, knees giving before I can stop them. The room tips—metal, bills, the scent of paint and blood all sliding together—and I would’ve gone down if Cast hadn’t reached me first.
His arms come around me in one clean motion.
My breath catches against his shoulder, body tensing on instinct before the warmth of him steadies me.
He adjusts his hold, one hand beneath my thighs, the other at my back, careful not to jar my wrist. The bandage brushes his collar; I can feel my pulse through it, uneven and fast.
Vincent scans for hazards as he moves, stepping around loose metal and glass, clearing a path to the stairs. He bends once, scoops the biggest spill of cash back into the duffel, zips it, and kicks it out of the way.
Cast’s grip tightens just a little, voice low and even. “I’ve got you.”
He hits the first stair and looks up into the dark hall. “Is anyone else here?” he says.
“Not that I know of,” I shake my head, biting my inner lip.
Cast shifts me in his arms, turning just enough for one last look.
The table lists to one side, one leg cracked, the other sunk into a dark puddle.
A box cutter lies near the drain, blade catching the faint light like a warning.
A blood-tacked bill clings to the rag I dropped earlier, edges stiff and curling.
The rope that bit my wrist has come undone, slumped by the chair leg in a loose coil, the ends stained rose and rough where it tore free.
Vincent lowers his voice. “No one else is here. Let’s move.”
Cast nods. His arms flex around me. My head is against his collarbone. I can hear his pulse—fast, steady.
The hallway ahead is clear. My bare toes slide under the edge of the blanket he pulled from a shelf on the way up. The wool scrapes my ankle. Heat from the nearest vent brushes my calves and then disappears. The front door stands open a hand’s width. Snow’s blown in and gathered on the mat.
“Wait,” I say.
Both of them look at me.
“Where’s Penny?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “D-did he get her too?”
“No, baby, no.” Cast brushes a piece of hair off of my forehead. “Damien’s with her. She’s okay. She’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow morning.”
My stomach drops. Morning. That means hours have passed. Maybe a whole night. Maybe more. The sterile light, the bandages, the smell of antiseptic—it all blurs as the thought lodges deep and cruel.
“She’s been there?” I manage, my throat tight. “While I was—” The rest dies in my mouth.
Images crowd in: Penny’s curls matted to her forehead, her tiny fingers reaching for mine, the beeping of machines.
The idea of her alone in some white room while I was—God, while I was here—makes something in me twist. I should’ve been there.
I should’ve protected her. I should’ve done everything differently.
My chest starts to shake. The guilt comes fast, too sharp to swallow.
“Hey.” Cast’s voice cuts through it, low but firm. He shifts me in his arms until I have no choice but to look at him. “She’s fine, Willow.”
I blink, trying to anchor on his face instead of the spiral building behind my ribs.
Vincent steps in closer, his hand brushing my shoulder—a brief, grounding touch. “You don’t need to think about that right now,” he says quietly. “You need to focus on getting home.”
I nod, agreeing with him, even though I don’t feel it.
Cast adjusts his grip, and I let my head fall against his shoulder, the fight bleeding out of me. “Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Coat,” Vincent says, yanking a heavy one from the hooks by the door. He drapes it over me, tucks it around my hips and shoulders, smooths the collar once at my throat. His fingers linger for half a heartbeat, then fall away.
Outside, a thin layer of snow has already skinned over the top step.
Cast moves carefully, boot to concrete, boot to snow, testing his grip.
The air outside is razor cold. It cuts the chemical taste out of my mouth.
My breath steams. The cold stings the raw skin at my wrist where air sneaks under the coat, but it’s short lived.
The car idles at the curb, exhaust curling in slow gray ribbons beneath the bumper.
Headlights cut through the trees, their beams softened by the fall of snow.
Vincent opens the rear door, and warm air spills out to meet the cold.
Cast climbs in after me, steady and careful, his hand still under my knees until he’s sure I won’t slip.
He tucks the blanket tight around my legs, checks the bandage once more, then nods to Vincent.
The door shuts with a solid thud, sealing the three of us inside the low hum of the heater and the faint rattle of snow on glass.
Cast keeps me against his chest, one arm locked beneath my knees, the other around my shoulders so I don’t jolt when the car hits ice.
His warmth steadies me, heartbeat a slow, even drum under my cheek.
Up front, Vincent drives like the world might break if he blinks—jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I stare at the rearview mirror, waiting for him to look back, to see me, but he never does.
When his gaze flicks up once, it lands on Cast’s arm instead, checking the wrap, then drops again.
My wrist pulses with dull pain. The hum of the engine fills the silence.
Snow swirls in the headlights like falling ash.
Cast tightens his hold when I shiver and lowers his mouth near my ear.
“It’s a far drive home,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes. No one’s gonna touch you with me here.”
I close my eyes for a moment, long enough to slip into sleep. Long enough to believe him.