Page 143 of Bad Blood

The brain has a funny way of protecting us. Shrouding what we think we see. Making things out of sync.

We become who we think we need to be to survive.

And I’m doing the best I can.

My eyes land on her front door.

Robbing me of logic.

My heart somersaults.

I swallow. Hard.

I pause a brief second to be sure.

It’s across the street.

I pull free from the detective’s grip and race to her brownstone. “It’s not her,” I mumble, on the verge of tears.

He hollers after me, but I don’t break pace and never turn. I propel in and out of cop cars and onto the sidewalk. I grab the railing, fly around it, and leap onto the first step. I force my feet forward and barrel for her door.

A man in black pants blocks my view. “Come with me,” he says, leaning into the doorway.

“No,” Brighton says. “I already told you everything I know. Leave me alone.”

On one side of the steps, two officers lean against the banister, arms crossed over their chest. When they notice me, they stand, hands held out for me to stop.

The commotion draws the man’s attention from Brighton to me, and he turns, their sudden movements catching him off guard.

“What the fuck?” He whips around with one hand on his gun, surprise written across his face.

“Brighton?” I stumble up the last step, righting myself as I stand a few feet from them.

She sidesteps Black Pants and comes tumbling into my arms. As soon as we connect, we collapse to the landing. Sobs rack her body as she trembles against my chest.

“Who’s this? What the fuck’s going on? Did you let him through?” asks Black Pants.

There’s a hand on my shoulder, but I don’t acknowledge it. Brighton buries her face in my chest, tears soaking into my shirt. She repeats something I can’t make out, and I pull away to see her face.

“Hey, I’m here,” I say in a soothing tone as I brush loose hair behind her ear.

She gazes at me through red-rimmed, puffy eyes. She sniffles and wipes her nose. I brush my hand against her splotchy cheek, and she covers her face with her hands. Her shoulders quake, and I wrap my hand around her head to pull her closer.

“Are you okay? Look at me,” I order. She doesn’t respond. She’s not okay, but I’m thankful this whole thing is not what I thought. Relief courses through me, knowing she’s safe in my arms.

I guide her to sit on the top step. She follows my direction and leans her head against the railing, wrapping her arms around her middle. I stand and block her with my body, protecting her from everything else.

“What happened?” I direct my question to the three men on her stoop. I try not to come off as defensive, but the way Black Pants postures up to me says I do a piss-poor job.

“We have questions.”

“It can’t wait?”

Black Pants steps toward me, crossing his arms over his chest. I size him up, comparing the two of us. He’s massive. Built like a brick. His broad shoulders and military cut are intimidating, but I don’t back down.

“Brighton,” he spits through gritted teeth. “This is him.” It’s not a question, and I’m confused.

She holds her hands between us. “It’s fine. He’s fine.” She uses the banister to pull herself to stand. “Dax,” she says, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. “They’re just doing their job.”

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