Page 126 of The Beast

But we got through it.

That was the hard one. Now? Well, I’m okay with him believing my dad deserves to die. God knows, I believe that myself. But thinking he should die is a lot different than playing executioner.

And so long as Gabe means what he says—so long as he doesn’t take off like a vigilante to take out my father before the law can handle it—well, then I think we’re good.

I hope so.

On the whole, I don’t ask the world for much. But I’m asking now. I want him back. I want him to work through the trauma that’s eating him alive. To push past all those hurts he never should have had to bear and didn’t deserve.

I think he can. I hope he can.

But that’s the thing about trauma. It doesn’t care about fault. It just...is. And Gabriel’s trauma has teeth. Has claws. Has a beast living inside it that wants blood.

Can he really keep that beast leashed? Could anyone?

I don’t know. And not knowing is the worst part.

At some point, I must have dozed off. Now my neck aches from sleeping at an awkward angle, and my mouth tastes dry and bitter.

My phone chimes with a text, and I snatch it up. Harper.

You there?

I tap out a reply—Here. You still in NYC?

Her reply comes fast.

Can you come down to the parking garage? Stuff to carry. Save me from multiple trips?

Not my idea of a fun morning activity, but I’m hardly going to say no. Besides, I need to move. I’m all stiff from falling asleep on the sofa.

I drag myself off the couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. I don’t bother changing. Don’t bother checking my reflection. What’s the point? It’s just Harper.

I grab my phone and keys, pausing briefly to look at my reflection in the entryway mirror. My own exhaustion stares back at me. Dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled, skin dull and pale.

Gabriel would tell me I’m beautiful anyway. The thought makes my chest ache.

The ride down takes forever. Fifty-four floors of piped in music is cruel and unusual punishment. For what condos in this building cost, there should be a live orchestra right there in the corner.

The elevator opens onto the parking garage, and I step out into concrete and fluorescent lights and the smell of exhaust and damp asphalt.

“Harper?”

My voice bounces off the walls. No answer.

I walk deeper into the garage, past rows of expensive cars that belong to the building’s other residents. BMWs and Mercedes and a Tesla or three. Nobody else is around. Too early for anyone to be leaving for work, too late for anyone to be coming home from a night out.

“Harper, dammit where are you?”

Still nothing.

I pull out my phone and send a quick text—I’m going back up. Meet me there, and we’ll ride back down together.

I know there’s a guard at the gate, and I consider asking him to check all his cameras and tell me where she is, but it’s a long, circular walk. And even though I’m sure it’s only paranoia, I’m getting a little creeped out.

That’s when I see him.

A tall man, stepping out from behind a concrete pillar. I take a step back. Then another.