Page 59 of Night Shift

“Shh, Sam,” I murmured, trying to calm her down. “We’ll figure it out; I promise. But right now, you need to focus on your breathing, okay?”

She nodded, her chest heaving as she continued to struggle for air. My heart ached for her, and the fire inside me burned hotter. Whoever was responsible for this would pay.

Within a few minutes, her shoulders began to relax, the initial panic subsiding under the rhythm of controlled breathing. “Keep going, Sam. You’re doing great,” I encouraged.

Gradually, the sharp rise and fall of her chest evened out, the bag crinkling less frequently. Her face, previously drawn tight with distress, softened as the waves of panic began to recede.

“Better?” I asked.

“Y-yes, thank you,” she whispered.

She rose from the kitchen chair, and her movements were slow, almost mechanical, as she stepped through the wreckage. Her gaze fell on the remnants of her modest possessions. With tears in her eyes, she took in the aftermath of the violence that had invaded her space.

“I don’t get it,” she muttered, swallowing hard. “I’ve got nothing, Atticus. I worked so hard just to become a nurse…worked for everything I have. Why would anyone do this?”

Glass crunched under her feet, and her eyes caught on the shattered frames on the living room floor. “Those Ansel Adams pictures…they were the one luxury I allowed myself,” she said, her voice cracking. She bent to pick up a piece of broken glass, only to let it drop again.

“Sam,” I began, but she stepped further into the apartment before I could finish, moving into the kitchen. Every cabinet had been emptied, its contents strewn across the floor, a jumbled mess of broken dishes and unrecognizable debris. The devastation was overwhelming, even for someone who hadn’t had much to begin with.

“Everything’s gone,” she said softly, her voice trembling. She made her way to her bedroom, and I followed closely behind, unsure of what else to say or do.

The bedroom was in no better shape than the rest of the apartment. Her bed was flipped over, and the dresser and nightstand drawers had been strewn about, their contents scattered everywhere. And then, amid the chaos, Sam’s focus narrowed on a small, intricately carved music box—or what was left of it. Her hand trembled as she picked up a fragment. All at once, her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor.

“This was my mother’s,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Tears streamed down her face. “You know, she died when I was eight… This and a few pictures were all I had left of her.”

For a few minutes, we sat there in silence in the midst of all her memories that now lay in ruins. Sobs wracked her body.

The sight of her grief tore at me. I kneeled beside her, pulling her into my arms. She cried against my chest. “Shh, Sam,” I murmured, rubbing her back gently. “It’s going to be okay; I promise. We’ll find who did this, and we’ll make sure they pay for it.”

She lifted her tear-streaked face from my chest, searching my eyes for reassurance. “How, Atticus?” she asked. “How can anything ever be okay again after this?”

“Because you’re stronger than you think,” I told her firmly, wiping away her tears with my thumb. “And you have people who care about you, who will do whatever it takes to help you through this. You’re not alone, Sam.”

I scooped her up into my arms. Her slender frame trembled as she wept into my shoulder. My chest tightened, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and reassured her, “You’ll be okay, Samantha. I promise you, I’ll protect you and make everything right.”

Still holding her, I navigated through the wreckage and carried her down the stairs to my car. Gently, I placed her in the passenger seat.

A few seconds later, Conan and Braxton approached. As soon as she caught sight of them, Sam jumped out of the seat, throwing her arms around Conan. Something deep inside me twisted, but I clenched my jaw and forced down the jealousy. Now wasn’t the time for that; now was the time to focus on keeping Sam safe.

Conan’s voice was soft, comforting as he reassured her, his hand steady on her back. “We’re here for you, Sam. You’re not alone in this.”

With a gentle touch, he helped her back into the seat, securing the seat belt around her carefully. Each action was a silent declaration of his intent to protect and support her, a role I now realized I had to step back from, given the circumstances.

For a while, no one said anything, and my brothers and I stood there in the dimly lit parking lot, the open door of my Mercedes casting a pool of light on the asphalt. Sam, still visibly shaken, glanced at us uneasily.

“Who do you think did this?” Braxton finally asked.

“Looks like a professional shakedown,” I said in a low, gravelly voice, giving each of my brothers a knowing scowl.

“Yeah, this wasn’t just any break-in,” Conan said, crossing his arms. “The way they trashed her place, it’s not random. It’s a message.”

Braxton nodded, his brow furrowed. “And I’d bet the Russian mafia’s behind it. This smells like their kind of intimidation tactic.”

The pieces clicked into place with a chilling clarity, pointing back to the suspicion that had been nagging at the back of my mind. “I’d be willing to bet her father has something to do with all this,” I said, the words tasting like bile. “He’s mixed up in some bad stuff, drugs mostly. What if he’s in over his head and now they’re coming after his daughter—targeting Sam?”

Sam’s eyes widened with terror, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

“We can’t let her go back to that apartment. It’s not safe,” I said.

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