Page 29 of Make Them Cry
The message comes through seconds later.
RIVER:Thank you. For keeping me safe.
I exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Every instinct in me wants to tell her it’s me, that she’s not alone in this hell, that the guy who drives her insane every morning is also the one who’d burn the world for her.
Instead, I type:
MASK:Sleep. You’re safe here.
She reads it, hesitates, then sets the phone down beside the bed. The corner of her mouth lifts, just slightly. A tiny, fragile smile.
The camera angle catches the faint light in her eyes before she closes them.
And that’s when I realize I’m done for.
There’s no coming back from this.
Not from the way she makes me feel when she smiles. Not from the way her name tastes like something I’ve been starving for. Not from the way my chest aches every time she looks scared—and the way it eases when she breathes again.
Arrow’s words echo in my head.You can’t protect her from behind the mask and hold her hand.
He’s right. But I’m already falling, and the ground’s coming up fast.
So I keep watch.
The vigilante.
The ghost.
The idiot who’s already in too deep.
Because as long as she’s safe, I can live with the rest.
Even if it kills me.
NINE
RIVER
I don’t leave the bed for the first two hours I’m awake.
It’s a weird thing, feeling safe and still feeling like you might unravel at any moment. The Riverside safe house is warm, clean, quiet. There’s food in the cabinets, fluffy towels in the bathroom, and a cute lavender plant on the counter with a note in unfamiliar handwriting:Grow wild, stay grounded.
And still, I jump when the fridge hums.
I have the day off. Thank god for weekends. But rest is impossible when your brain keeps imagining shadows in the corners and phantom footsteps outside every window.
I sip bad coffee in silence and reread the message.
MASK:Sleep. You’re safe here.
His words echo louder than the voice in my own head.
By noon, I’m pacing.
By one, I’ve put on running shoes and shadow-boxed in the hallway like a cartoon version of myself who thinks she can suddenly take on the world.
By one-fifteen, I realize I’m hopeless and furious about it.
