Page 52 of You Can Run

Jessica felt them hit before she even understood them. “You what?”

“I talked to them,” Trent repeated, faster now, like saying it again might make it sound less insane. “The people who broke in. I talked to the woman. She told me what this is about—it's him they want, not you. If you come with me, you're out. You're safe. It's that simple.”

Jessica stared at him.

The information arrived in pieces, each one worse than the last. He'd talked to them. He'd talked to the people who had kicked in her door and put an armed man in her bedroom. He'd talked to them, and instead of calling it in, instead of doing the single thing his badge required of him, he'd made a deal. He was standing here offering her safety that he'd purchased by collaborating with the people who'd tried to kill her.

“Trent,” she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “How did they know where I was?”

He blinked. “What?”

“How did they find me? The duplex, Trent. No one knew that address. Not the marshals, not anyone from before.” She watched his face and saw the flinch—tiny and involuntary, there and gone. “How did they know?”

Trent's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Dante took a step toward him. “She asked you a question.”

“That's not—I didn't—” Trent's voice had changed, the bravado cracking, something desperate and cornered leaking through. “I was trying to protect you. I've been trying to protect you this whole time.”

“How did they know where I live?” Jessica said again, and this time her voice wasn't calm. It was shaking.

Trent's eyes darted between them. She watched him search for a version of the story that kept him clean, watched him realize there wasn't one, and watched him do what Trent always did when the truth closed in: he pivoted to anger.

“This is his fault,” Trent said, jabbing a finger at Dante. “All of it. You were fine before he showed up. You were safe. I kept you safe for a year, and then he walks back into your life and suddenly everything falls apart?—”

“You gave them my name,” Jessica said.

The words came out quietly, but they stopped him dead.

“You gave them my name, and you've been lying about it ever since.”

Trent's face went through something ugly: shock, then denial, then a fury that had nowhere to go and settled into his body instead. His breathing changed. His hand dropped to his holster, and this time it wasn't hovering. His fingers closed around the grip.

“Trent,” Jessica said. “Don't.”

“I'm not the bad guy here,” he said, his voice cracking. “I'm the one who came for you. I'm the one who's been trying to fixthis. And you're standing there with him, wearing that fucking ring?—”

He'd seen it. His eyes had locked onto her left hand, and whatever thread had been holding him together snapped behind his expression.

He pulled the gun.

The motion was clumsy and rushed; it was the draw of a man who'd qualified at a range and never pulled his weapon in the field. The barrel hadn't even leveled before Dante moved.

He knocked the gun sideways with one hand and drove his fist into Trent's face with the other.

Trent hit the concrete hard. The gun skittered from his grip and spun beneath the nearest car. For a second, there was nothing but the echo of the impact and the sound of Trent's ragged breathing.

Dante stepped in and kicked the gun further out of reach, then grabbed Trent by the front of his shirt and hauled him up just enough to make him listen.

“You don't get to come here and play hero,” he growled. “You sold her out. You know it, and now she knows it. And if I ever see you near her again, we're going to have a very different conversation.”

Trent blinked up at him, dazed, blood running from his nose.

Dante held his gaze for one more second, then dropped him.

He turned back to Jessica.

“Get in,” he said.