Page 66 of Sassy Love
“She’s over there, but she’s too sick to come inside.” She turns back, looking out onto the sidewalk.
“Show me?”
She takes my hand, and my fingers wrap around hers.
We walk down the stairs and around the building. A woman sits on the ground, her back leaning up against the brick. She shivers, her dark hair covering half of her face. I close the distance and look her over. “Are you okay?”
When she lifts her head up, her battered face steals my breath.
Fuck. I press a hand to my mouth.
She needs to be in the hospital, not the shelter. But at least the shelter would be safer than the street.
“Can you stand, if I help?” I ask.
Her chin wobbles, and I squat down. “We can go inside and get some help from there.”
She shakes her head. “No, he’ll take her.”
“He’s not allowed inside. I’ll contact the police and the medics, but you have to stand for me, okay?”
After a beat, she nods. Her shaking hands land in mine, and I help her to her feet.
Once inside, I make sure the woman and her little girl are settled and call the services. The next call I make is to Serelle. She should be here. Someone should be here twenty-four seven. Not just during the day. It’s not enough.
I can only imagine how this would have played out if it were mid-winter.
When the police arrive and the medics have the woman in their care, I retreat to the foyer and lean on the wall, observing, just taking in the real-time daily Serenity workings. The difference we are making.
My gaze snags on the little girl of the woman the police are currently talking to. She plays at her mother’s feet. A sad smile tugs on my lips as burning flushes behind my eyes.
“Hey.” A low rumble sees me turn back.
A tear dislodges, spilling down my cheek. The deep blues I spent a week in forced proximity with tighten with worry. A crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a dark blue tie over navy pants, he’s all Office Rawlins today. Mr. Business.
“You okay?” he says, thumbing my cheek dry.
No.
Maybe?
I turn back to glance at the little girl. How many more exist in this city?
How many more women have nowhere to go?
How many stay because of that factor?
How many never leave, until it’s too late...
Nausea floods my chest, burning.
“Excuse me.” I bolt upstairs, spilling into the women’s bathroom. My eight-dollar coffee and brioche return in a grizzly fashion, splattering all over the toilet bowl.
Breathing in a long, deep lungful, I splash my face with water before fixing my makeup.
The second the door to the bathroom gives way under my hand, I find Lawson. He leans on the wall by the restroom.
“You don’t have to keep tabs on me, Rawlins.”
