49. 49
Harlow
Three weeks after River shot me, get into Jagger’s car still feels like tearing myself open. Every little movement hurts.
He still wears his work scrubs. Part-time doctor, part-time good brother.
We drive into an older neighborhood. The houses are small. Cars are parked everywhere — on the sidewalks, in the yards. Some have no tires. Cats cross the street, and the streetlights above flick on, greeting the night.
Jagger parks in front of a brick house. We knock at the front door, but nobody answers. He turns the doorknob and the door creaks open, loud and alarming.
Inside, the walls are covered in stickers, posters, and pirate flags. Beads hang from archways. Classic rock hums through the house.
We step into a living room. A shirtless elderly man slumps in a recliner. A used syringe lies on the carpet beside him, but his chest rises in slow, steady breaths.
“Oh my gosh,” I murmur.
Jagger presses two fingers to the man’s neck.
“He’s breathing,” he says before urging me forward.
A woman cooks in the kitchen. She glances at us, then calls out, “Coop! You got people.”
Coop doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s the guy in the chair.
“Do you know where Killian is?” I ask.
She takes a drag of her cigarette. “I think he’s in one of the bedrooms. I don’t fuckin’ know.”
He’s here.
I move past Jagger as fast as my battered body allows. I turn, facing a dark hallway. Doors are on either side, but at the end, one is ajar with a light on. I step forward, careful and steady.
Behind me, Jagger opens each door, checking the rooms.
I reach the end, and peek through the small crack.
My heart stumbles.
Diagonal from me, Killian stares into a bathroom mirror. His cheek — his scarred side — is ripped open from the corner of his mouth toward his cheekbone. Blood runs down his jaw and neck like a red curtain. The sliced muscle and flesh fold over, revealing his bottom teeth and gums.
It’s gruesome.
The glint of a blade catches my eye. He lifts his chin, exposing the column of his throat. His tattooed hand presses the steel edge against his jugular.
I open the door wider, causing it to groan loudly. In the mirror, his gaze snaps to me.
“Only pussies commit suicide,” I say. “That’s what you told me the day we met.”
“Harlow,” he whispers.
Except my name is barely discernible. His mouth is too damaged to enunciate well.
He blinks several times.
“Yep.” My voice is soft, and my steps cautious. I inch closer, palms up. “It’s really me.”
“You’re dead.” He points next to himself. “Like Asher.”
There’s no one beside him.
“Killian, put down the knife. Okay?”
“No,” he says.
As I get closer, my gaze veers away. My mind wants to protect me from seeing his face ripped open. The worst part is, he isn’t acting like it’s painful, as if it didn’t even happen.
Once close, I summon the strength to keep my eyes on his, despite the carnage just beneath his cheekbone. I reach up and cup the other side of his jaw.
“Look what you did to yourself, baby. Why?”
“You died. I can’t smile. Now I can.”
“I’m right here. I’m real.”
“Mm-hm,” he says, then looks back at the mirror.
“I’m not dead, Killian.”
Nothing.
“She isn’t dead,” says Jagger, who appears behind us in the doorway. “I brought Harlow with me.”
He lifts the knife once more toward his neck. I grapple his wrist.
“Killian! Look at me. Touch me. I’m here!”
He fights me. He’s too strong. He shoves me backward, and I’m flung onto the floor. He doesn’t notice.
He’s going to do it!
I panic.
He’s delusional.
Insane.
High.
Who knows which.
I scream. “Help! Help me, Killian!”
He stops and turns around.
“River’s after me!” I jump to my feet. “He’s got a gun. He’s here! Save me this time! Save me!”
I stagger down the hallway, one arm clamped around my ribs. Every step burns through my healing incisions. My insides feel like they’re tearing. Still, I have no other way to stop him from slicing his throat. Maybe Jagger will use me as a distraction and steal the knife. I don’t know.
My hand reaches the cold doorknob.
Then—
Footsteps grow louder behind me. I stumble through the door. Police spotlights wash over me. Officers fill the yard, their weapons trained on the doorway. I stand frozen, surrounded.
“Drop the knife!” yells an officer.
I feel Killian behind me.
Just as I turn around, an officer shouts something.
An electric crack tears through the yard. Two wires streak toward Killian. His muscles lock, and he crashes onto his side.
They tasered him!
Officers rush in, grabbing his knife and restraining him. I stumble backward with my hand over my mouth, stunned.
“He’s cut!” I shout, as if everyone can’t see his mutilated face.
That’s all I can do, though.
“What are you doing!”
Someone pulls me away.
Jagger.
His hand is cut.
“I tried to take it from him,” he explains.
Clark and Christine appear, rushing to Jagger.
Christine lifts her chin toward Killian. Two officers place cuffs on him and help him stand. One officer presses the button on the radio.
“Bring rescue in,” an officer says into his radio. “He needs emergency medical treatment before transport.”
“Transport where?”
Christine’s voice cracks. “Once the hospital stabilizes him, he’ll be taken for an involuntary psychiatric examination.”
“This was all a trap! You planned this?” I say in horror, gesturing at the chaos around us. “He was tasered!”
Jagger winces. “The phone calls freaked me out. He kept saying your name. I hoped he wouldn’t run if I brought you. Then we could catch him and get him help. Harlow, I am sorry, but we love him too.”
My hands drop to my side, unable to argue that even though I was misled.
“I think we could have caught him without her,” Clark grumbles.
Jagger shakes his head in disbelief. “Dad, Killian almost sliced his damn throat. If it wasn’t for Harlow distracting him, he would’ve done it.”
Christine gasps, then stares at her handcuffed son across the yard. “Jesus Christ. His face. What have I done?”
It breaks my heart. She blames herself.
Even with his hands restrained behind him and his mouth torn open, he tries to fight, back away, and escape. I rush over, afraid the officers will taser him again.
“Killy, look at me.” I grab his shirt, tugging on it to get his attention. “It’s me. It’s Harlow. I’m alive.”
My hands slip under the shirt, and I grip his sides. “See? Feel me?”
His muscles relax. I lean into him, pressing my cheek to his body and wrapping my arms tightly around him.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back,” an officer says.
“I’m calming him,” I hiss, and squeeze him tighter.
Clark appears at our side. I side glance at him, keeping my cheek firmly pressed against Killian.
We stare at each other. At that very moment, a blood droplet lands on my cheek.
It must’ve fallen from Killian’s cut. I don’t wipe it away.
I let Clark see it. I let him see what Killian means to me.
I let him see that his son had to be tased until my arms wrapped around him.
He swallows hard, and his brow wrinkles as he takes in the grim but devoted visual.
“Let her,” he concedes, soft but certain.
Maybe now he truly understands how much Killian needs me. That I am good for him. I have to believe that myself.
And Killian stays calm for me.
I hold him, listening to his heartbeat against my ear. It takes awhile for the medics to arrive, but it’s still too soon.
“Step aside,” the officer orders, finally prying me off of him. As they lead him away, I try to follow. A cop holds me back, and Christine takes my place.
“We’ll take it from here,” she says to me.
“I want to go with him!” I beg.
“With all due respect, Harlow, it’s time I get Killian the help I didn’t get Asher. Please step aside and let me take care of my family.”
I stand frozen, unsure what to argue back. All I manage is: “He’s my family too.”
To my surprise, she grabs my hand and squeezes. “Thank you. I don’t know if we would have gotten him out of the house alive without you. I’ll be forever grateful. Give us time.”
Then she turns on her heel, following the medics.
Killian looks over his shoulder, glaring back at me with rage in his eyes. He garbles nonsense. Nobody could understand what he said.
Except me.
“You left me.”
“I did not!” I shout back.
I clutch my aching chest as they lead him away.
For the first time, I understand how far from reality he has fallen.
Clark was right about one thing.
Killian needs help I can’t give him.