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“Yeah?”
“My name is Detective Cortez with the Heatstroke Police Department. I’d like to talk to you about what happened at your apartment. Do you have a minute?”
I glance around at the girls. “Talk to me?”
“About Carter Savage. He’s currently in our custody. I’d like to go over what happened with you and get a couple facts straightened out.”
I sit up and nod to my friends. “Yeah. I can do that”
It’s been three days since the attack, and I can’t go home. It makes me uncomfortable, being in my apartment and remembering what happened. It doesn’t feel safe anymore, so I’ve been staying with my grandmother and my Dad.
I sit on the sofa in the living room, book in hand, my phone on the cushion next to me. Ganny’s making chocolate chip cookies. She’s been baking nonstop since I arrived, like she can keep me safe with sugar and carbs.
The girls are the only ones who know about the baby.
And Savage is going to be released from jail, all charges dropped, because he saved my life. The scumbag who attacked me isn’t so lucky. He’s severely wounded, and he’s going back to prison, but even still, I don’t feel particularly safe.
I let out a breath and try to focus on my book, but the words blur together on the page.
Carter saying he doesn’t care for me.
The pregnancy tests.
A knife against my throat.
Stop.
It’s difficult. I struggle to fall asleep at night, and when I do, I end up having nightmares about what happened.
A knock at the front door sends a shot of hot fear streaking through my veins.
“I’ll get it,” I call out.
“Are you sure, honey pie?” Ganny calls from the kitchen, sounding frail. “I can get that for you, honey, you don’t got to?—”
“I’ve got it, Ganny. Don’t worry about me.”
I head through to the hall and look through the peephole.
Carter is on the front porch.
Relief and fear thread through me, and I open the door right away.
“Princess.” His voice is as deep and comforting as ever. And his dark eyes are fixed on me, searching, like he thinks I’ll disappear.
There are dark circles under his eyes, and his beard is rougher than it was before. He’s wearing another of those shirts with the logo “Savage Self Defense” on the front, and his hair is damp, curling at the ears in that way I like.
Instead of fear, I’m filled with joy at the sight of him. But I have to measure my reaction. Savage told me he had nothing to offer from the start, and I’m not going to pressure him. He saved my life. He saved our child’s life without even knowing it.
“Hannah,” he says.
It takes everything in me not to step out onto the porch and into his arms. To kiss him.
“Carter,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
His gaze snaps from my lips to my eyes. “What?”
“Thank you for saving my life,” I say. “A second time.”
