Page 29 of Kept By the Loan Shark

“Do you want me to send him another message for you? Or maybe call?”

“No,” I said eventually. “I’ve reached out multiple times. It’s his turn.”

She moved the comb through another section of my hair. “How long are you going to wait before you decide it’s really over?”

“A few more days, I guess,” I replied uncertainly. “But I think we both know it’s done.”

She paused combing to squeeze my shoulder. “I never thought he would do you like this. I always thought he was an old-school sort of gentleman, you know?”

“I know,” I murmured quietly.

She worked on the snarls near the back of my head for a few minutes. “Do you think he was responsible for Travis’s death?”

“No,” I said after a while. “I think Hagen did fight him earlier in the day, but something else must have happened to Travis after that.”

“Someone else,” she corrected. “God only knows how many enemies he had.”

“Hagen, too.”

“You think someone tried to frame Hagen for Travis’s murder?”

“It’s possible, right? I mean, his business is all legitimate now, but it wasn’t always. He still has friends who aren’t exactly the city’s most upstanding citizens.”

I didn’t name the men I was thinking of—Besian Beciraj or that scary ass Russian Kostya. I had only met the Russian once and that was frankly enough. Besian, however, I had seen a few times at Hagen’s place. The two were old friends and enjoyed playing cards together.

“I could see someone trying to frame him,” she agreed, “but I don’t even want to imagine what sort of crazy asshole would do that.” She tugged the comb through the last of a snarl. “Do you think it’s someone you know?”

“I hope not.” I shuddered at the thought that someone was creeping around, waiting to hurt me or Hagen again.

“Do you want me to…,” she trailed off as if she wasn’t quite sure how to finish it. “Do you want me to go to Hagen’s place and pick up your things?”

The thought of Taylor going to the house that was supposed to be my new home and boxing up my belongings made my eyes burn. A ball of emotion clogged my throat, and I had to swallow down the thick pain of it, refusing to cry again. “No. Not…not yet.”

“Okay.” She set aside the comb and picked up the brush. As she drew the bristles through my detangled hair, she asked, “What’s on the schedule for today?”

Glad for the change of subject, I said, “Neurosurgeon follow-up appointment at ten, meeting the new neurologist at eleven and then my occupational therapy intake appointment at one.”

“You’ll like Danny’s clinic.” Her older brother was the occupational therapist who had agreed to take me on as a client. He worked in a clinic not far from the university and on the same METRO line that I would be using. “He can be a hard ass, but he’s only tough because he wants his clients to get better.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“If he’s really mean to you, tell me and I’ll thump him the next time I see him,” she promised.

I laughed. “Okay.”

“I think if we pull this into a loose, messy bun, no one will be able to see the wound.” She gently wound my hair up and held it in place with her hand. “Or I could braid it to one side?”

“Let’s leave it down until my appointment with the neurologist. He’s probably going to want poke around over there.”

“Ugh,” she huffed dramatically. “I’ll have to leave the room if they’re going to clip these stitches. I literally barfed all over my mom when I had to have stitches clipped out of my arm when I was eleven.”

“Your poor mom!”

“Eh, she’s a nurse. She’s been yakked on by hundreds of people.” Taylor finished brushing my hair. “Okay. You’re done. Now—scoot! I’m about to do the potty dance like a preschooler.”

As she dashed off to the bathroom, I gathered up my brush and comb and walked over to the suitcase I had set up in the corner of her room. I found the pair of socks I wanted and made my way to the kitchen to take my morning medications. The low throb in the back of my head was starting to return, and I knew it would get worse as the day wore on and I moved around more. I had never been a particularly religious person, but God, if I didn’t pray the headaches would go away soon. They were exhausting and frustrating, and I didn’t know how many more days and weeks of this I could stand.

“Cereal?” Taylor asked as she swept into the kitchen in her bathrobe with her wet hair wound up in a towel. “Or something heavier like eggs?”

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