Page 28 of Under His Protection

I wonder how cold I will be in this thing if it doesn’t stop raining.

As I head out the door, Sarah’s hand rests on my arm, a warm touch seeping through my clothes. “Everything okay?” she asks.

My stomach rumbles, but the hunger feels secondary. The unsettling feeling, the nagging worry, pulls me forward.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile, but my words ring hollow, even to my ears. “I just need to go.”

She hesitates, then nods slowly. “Okay,” she says. “Call me when you get home?”

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. I have a hunch, and I’m worried. My hand reaches for the doorknob, my fingers tightening around it. The need to get to the Bourne siblings is overwhelming. I must figure this out quickly and need Harvey’s help.

The rain has stopped. But the city streets are still slick with a greasy sheen, reflecting the early morning sunlight in a distorted, shimmering mess. I take a bite of the vegan croissant I grabbed at the store. The taste is bland and disappointing. It’s as unappetizing as the general feeling of damp misery that seems to cling to the entire city—a feeling I carry within myself, a dampness in my gut.

A figure ahead of me catches my eye. I think I see Tyler’s windblown sandy hair, a familiar sight in this sea of grey.

“Tyler!”

I’m about to shout his name again, to call out to him, but he disappears into the crowd ahead of me. Never mind, I think, tilting my head, my heart hammering a beat faster. It’s been over a year since we last spoke.

Oh, well, he’s gone.

Instead, my fingers fumble through my phone, searching for Harvey’s contact. I’m surprised by the tremor in my hands; I haven’t felt this nervous in years.

‘Michelle Bourne,’ I type. ‘Does she have a history of reckless driving?’ The question feels urgent and desperate as if my whole world hinges on the answer.

His reply pops up a few moments later: ‘I can’t tell you, it’s confidential, Ava.’

I slam my fist against the phone screen, anger simmering beneath my skin. He knows I’m right. He knows it’s about Alexander. I press the green call button.

The phone rings once before he answers. At least he’s quick on the draw.

“Harvey?” I say, my voice tight.

“Yeah?” he gruffs. “I’m busy, Ava.”

“I need to know if Michelle Bourne has a history of reckless driving,” I say.

“Look, I can’t tell you that,” he says, his tone clipped. “You know I can’t—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harvey, I know about confidentiality,” I snap, my frustration boiling over. “I’m asking for a favor. Just tell me the truth. Please, it’s important.”

“Listen, I can tell you to look up accidents on your phone. But I’m kind of—”

A muffled voice, urgent and demanding, cuts him off. “Harvey, it’s Monroe—we need to get to—” The sounds of sirens and shouts drown out the words. Another crime. Another frantic call.

There’s a beep, and the phone goes dead. Damn it.

A low rumble in my stomach makes me navigate to the nearest bakery; even Harvey’s lack of cooperation can’t suppress my hunger. The sweet, yeasty scent of bread hits me like a warm hug. I stop in front of the bakery, its windows glowing. Inside, a scene unfolds—flour-dusted aprons, trays of glistening pastries, and a bustling energy that feels a world away from whatever I’m trying to outrun. But even with the warmth radiating from the bakery, a nagging feeling whispers in my mind. I’m being watched.

I push open the door and arrive at the counter, where I order a strong, black coffee and find a seat at a small table near the window. The cafe is buzzing with activity—a young couple sharing a croissant, a businessman reading a newspaper. But I feel a million miles away, lost in my thoughts.

I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling slightly. “Michelle Bourne,” I type, followed by “accident.” A string of news articles pops up on the screen, a digital trail of Michelle’s past.

The first article is from a local news site, dated back to when Michelle was only fifteen years old. The headline reads, “Teen Wanted for Reckless Driving.” My heart races as I scroll through the article, reading about the description of a reckless joyride, the car speeding through red lights, and the sirens blaring. I read it all, my stomach tightening.

I click on another article, this one even more alarming: “Young Woman Found and Arrested for DUI.” The picture is a blur, but I recognize Michelle’s wild tangle of dark hair and the defiance in her eyes. I read about the police report, the blood alcohol content, and the damage to the vehicle.

I scroll through more articles. Reckless driving, drunk driving, drug driving. It’s all there, a trail of chaos, a history of defiance. And all of them were years before my parents got killed.

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