20. Nash
NASH
Ican't get her out of my mind.
The metallic tang of regret mingles with something sweeter—the memory of Eve's soft gasps, the way she said my name like a prayer when she came apart in my arms. I've replayed those ten minutes a thousand times in the four hours since I walked away from her, and each replay makes me hate myself a little more.
She looked at me like I'd slapped her when I pulled away.
Those warm brown eyes, still hazy with satisfaction, filling with confusion and something that might have been hurt.
I wanted to crawl back into that bed, wanted to explain that leaving had nothing to do with not wanting her and everything to do with wanting her too much.
But explaining would mean telling her the truth about what we were before, and I'm not ready for that conversation. Not when she's looking at me like I might actually be worth something.
I'll let her memories slowly come back and take advantage of as much time as I can until then.
The ambulance radio crackles to life, pulling me back to the present. "Unit 47, we have a possible cardiac event at 1247 Maple Street. Seventy-three-year-old female, conscious and alert."
"Copy that," I respond, already reaching for the sirens. My partner Jake barely looks up from his phone. He's been scrolling through dating apps for the better part of the shift, occasionally showing me profiles of women who look nothing like the one currently occupying every corner of my brain.
The address leads us to a tidy brownstone where Mrs. Rivera is sitting on her front steps looking perfectly healthy.
She's a regular, calls us at least twice a month for chest pains that magically resolve the moment we arrive.
Her daughter works double shifts at the hospital and Mrs. Rivera gets lonely.
"The pain is right here," she says, pressing a hand to her chest with theatrical precision. "Sharp, like someone's stabbing me with a knife."
I kneel beside her, already pulling out the blood pressure cuff. "When did it start, Mrs. Rivera?"
"About an hour ago. Right after I finished my stories." She means her soap operas. Always does.
Her vitals are perfect, of course. Blood pressure normal, heart rate steady, oxygen levels exactly where they should be for a woman her age.
But I go through the motions anyway—checking her pulse, listening to her heart, asking about her medications.
Because this isn't really about chest pain, and we both know it.
"Have you been taking your blood pressure medication?" I ask, even though I know the answer.
"Every day, just like the doctor said." She studies my face with sharp eyes. "You look tired, young man. Are you eating enough?"
Jake snorts from where he's leaning against the ambulance. "Nash doesn't eat, Mrs. Rivera. He survives on coffee and whatever guilt tastes like."
"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
Jake's not wrong. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday, haven't slept more than two hours at a stretch since I found Eve bleeding in that street.
Everything feels off-kilter, like someone's tilted the world slightly to the left and I can't find my balance.
Mrs. Rivera pats my hand with paper-thin fingers. "The heart wants what it wants, dear. Don't let pride get in the way of happiness."
For a moment, I wonder if she can see right through me, if the want I'm carrying around is written across my face in permanent ink. Then Jake clears his throat pointedly, and I remember we have actual work to do.
"Your heart sounds strong, Mrs. Rivera," I tell her, packing up the equipment. "But if the pain comes back, don't hesitate to call."
She smiles, looking satisfied. "Of course, dear. You boys drive safe."
Back in the ambulance, Jake shakes his head. "You know she's just lonely, right?"
"I know." I pull away from the curb, already heading back toward our usual patrol area. "Doesn't make her feelings less real."
"Christ, you're philosophical today." Jake goes back to his phone, swiping left on a blonde with too much makeup. "What's got you all twisted up? Usually after you get laid, you're in a better mood."
The observation hits closer to home than I'd like. "I didn't get laid."
"Obviously. You've been acting like someone kicked your dog all morning. It's like you got…fucking blue balls or something."
I consider telling him. I work with Jake often enough, and he's seen enough of my shit to handle whatever truth I might throw at him. But explaining Eve means explaining everything else—something I've never known how to do.
Instead, I reach for the radio as another call comes in. "Unit 47, possible overdose at the Eastside Community Center. Twenty-two-year-old male, unconscious but breathing."
"That's more like it," Jake says, suddenly alert. "Real emergency this time."
We find Tommy Romero exactly where his friends said he'd be—slumped behind the dumpster with a needle still hanging from his arm. He's pale as death, lips tinged blue, but his pulse is steady and he's breathing on his own. Probably heroin cut with something synthetic.
I work quickly, checking his vitals while Jake preps the naloxone.
Tommy's a regular too, but not the harmless kind like Mrs. Rivera.
This is his fourth overdose in two months, and each time he comes back angrier, more desperate.
His girlfriend died of an overdose last winter, and he's been trying to follow her ever since.
"Come on, Tommy," I mutter, administering the naloxone. "Don't make me explain to your mom why I couldn't bring you back this time."
It takes longer than usual, but eventually his eyes flutter open. The moment consciousness returns, he's swinging, trying to knock the IV out of his arm.
"Get the fuck away from me!" he snarls, but his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated. "I didn't ask for your help!"
"Take it easy," I say, keeping my voice calm. "You're okay. We're going to get you cleaned up."
"I don't want to be cleaned up!" The desperation in his voice is raw, honest. "I want to be with her!"
Jake exchanges a look with me over Tommy's head. We've had this conversation before, multiple times. Tommy never wants to go to the hospital, never wants treatment, never wants anything except to sink back into the chemical oblivion that might reunite him with the girl he loved.
"She wouldn't want this for you," I say quietly, helping him onto the stretcher. "You know she wouldn't."
For a moment, something flickers in Tommy's eyes—grief, maybe, or recognition. Then it's gone, replaced by the hollow stare of someone who's given up on everything except dying.
We transport him to his standard hospital, where the ER staff greet him by name. Dr. Martinez takes one look at Tommy and sighs, already reaching for the paperwork that will discharge him back to the streets in a few hours. It's a cycle none of us know how to break.
"He's getting worse," Jake observes as we restock the ambulance. "Used to be once a month, now it's every week."
"People handle grief differently," I say, but even I can hear how inadequate the words sound. Tommy's not handling grief—he's drowning in it, and every time we pull him back to the surface, he goes under deeper.
The thought makes me uncomfortable in ways I don't want to examine.
Because isn't that what I'm doing with Eve?
Drowning in something I can't control, making choices that hurt us both because I don't know how to stop wanting something I can't have?
It certainly feels like each time we've tried to pull away from each other has been more painful and now I'm deeper than ever.
My phone buzzes against my leg—not the work phone, but my personal cell. I pull it out to find a text from Morgan.
What the hell happened this morning? Eve has barely spoken a word all day and you're ignoring my texts.
I stare at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
What am I supposed to tell her? That I finally crossed the line I've been dancing around for years?
That I made Eve come apart in my arms and then walked away like it meant nothing?
That every instinct I have is screaming at me to go home and claim her properly, consequences be damned?
Instead, I delete the message without responding and slide the phone back into my pocket.
"Personal drama?" Jake asks, noticing my expression.
"Something like that."
We spend the rest of the shift running minor calls—a dislocated shoulder from a pickup basketball game, an elderly man with chest pains that turn out to be heartburn, a fender-bender with no injuries. Normal stuff, the kind of routine work that usually helps me clear my head.
But today, nothing works. Every patient reminds me of Eve somehow.
The basketball player has the same stubborn set to his jaw that she gets when she's trying not to cry.
The elderly man keeps asking about his wife, who died two years ago but he can't remember, and it makes me think about selective memory and the cruelty of forgetting the people who matter most.
By the time we're heading back to the station for end of shift, I'm ready to crawl out of my own skin.
The December sun is already setting, painting the city in shades of amber and grey.
Christmas lights twinkle in windows and storefronts, a reminder that the world keeps spinning even when your personal life is falling apart.
"You sure you're okay?" Jake asks as we pull into the station. "You've been weird all day. Weirder than usual, I mean."
"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Just tired."
"When's the last time you took a real day off? Not just switching shifts, but actually staying home and doing nothing."
I can't remember. Work has always been my escape, the place where I can focus on other people's problems instead of my own. But lately, even that's not working. Every emergency reminds me that life is fragile, that the people you care about can disappear in an instant if you're not careful.
We finish our paperwork in companionable silence, the familiar routine of restocking supplies and cleaning equipment.
Jake heads out first, calling something about meeting some girl for dinner.
I take my time, checking inventory twice and running diagnostics on equipment that was already working perfectly.
I'm just gathering my things when my burner phone buzzes.
The burner is a cheap flip phone I keep for the side jobs—the texts that tell me when to let someone die, when to take a little longer getting to a scene, when to accidentally misplace paperwork. It's not technically my phone, just something I carry for people who pay me to look the other way.
The message is from an unknown number, but that's not unusual. What makes my blood run cold is the content.
We know you saved the girl from the car crash. Double your normal rate if you drop her at 1247 Industrial Boulevard. Come alone.
My hands are shaking as I read it again. Then again. The words don't change, don't become less terrifying with repetition.
They know about Eve. Somehow, whoever wanted her dead the first time knows that I pulled her out of that alley, probably knows that my name is on her release paperwork, knows that she's been staying with me.
The implication hits me like a physical blow. Someone tried to kill her. The "accident" that left her broken and bleeding wasn't an accident at all—it was attempted murder. And now they want me to finish the job.
I think about the address they've given me. 1247 Industrial Boulevard is in the warehouse district, the kind of place where people go to disappear permanently. If I show up there with Eve, she won't be coming home.
My first instinct is to call the police, but that thought dies before it fully forms. I can't involve the cops without explaining why I have a burner phone in the first place, without admitting to all the times I've taken money to let criminals die on my table.
And even if I could somehow navigate that conversation, what proof do I have?
A text message that could come from anyone?
Besides, whoever sent this message knows enough about my side business to contact me through the right channels. That suggests connections I don't want to think about, the kind of people who have cops on payroll and judges in their pocket.
No, the police aren't an option. Which means I need to figure out who wants Eve dead and why. And it doesn't sit well with so many other questions I have concerning her accident.
Luckily, the thing with my side business is that I am not obligated to follow the instructions. It's just a bribe—ones I usually turn down—but this time, I won't be making that drop.
I stare at the message until the words blur together, my mind racing through possibilities.
Eve doesn't remember her life before the accident, which means she doesn't know who might want to hurt her.
But someone obviously thinks she's a threat—enough of a threat to pay double my usual rate for her death.
The usual rate for letting someone die is five thousand dollars. Double that is ten grand, which means someone really wants Eve gone. That kind of money suggests this isn't personal—it's business. Professional. The sort of clean-up job that organizations use to tie up loose ends.
But what loose ends? Eve is no danger to anyone. She's engaged to some guy who hasn't even called to check on her since she disappeared. The only kid to a simple dad with a lumber company and from a small town.
What could she possibly know that's worth killing for?