Page 121 of Before You Fell

I give her a slow once-over. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’m doing you a favor.”

She laughs because she thinks I am joking.

I push off the wall.

Jett notices. “Where are you going?”

“I just need a minute.”

He looks at me for half a second longer than necessary.

I leave the green room before someone shoves another drink, another body, or another pair of tits my way and expects me to behave like the trained animal everyone paid to see.

The backstage corridors stretch ahead. I pass two security guards, a stack of road cases, and a half-open door where someone is definitely doing something that will require hand sanitizer afterward.

Usually, I would stop and make a comment. Maybe join in if I felt like it. Tonight, even my worst instincts seem weary.

The loading dock is cooler. Quieter. For the first time all night, no one is screaming my name.

I pull out my phone and open Graham’s number.

It has been a week. Seven fucking days with no word about Willow. I have called the rehab center more than once, but they won’t tell me shit because privacy laws don’t care that I’m losing my mind in designer boots.

Still, it makes me want to punch something.

My thumb hovers over Graham’s name as I stare at the screen, wondering whether her parents have been able to talk to her.

I press call before I talk myself out of it.

He answers on the fifth ring. “What do you want, Phoenix?”

I almost smile. No hello or polite bullshit. Just Graham Hart, still making it very fucking clear that if murder were legal, I would already be a cautionary tale.

I stare out into the dark beyond the loading dock. “I’m calling to ask how she is.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Graham, I just need to know whether she’s okay,” I say.

More fucking silence.

I pull the phone away from my ear to see if he has ended the call. The seconds tick by as my pulse races in my throat.

Then Graham says, “Elise received an update from the center today.”

My grip shifts around the phone.

“We weren’t able to speak to Willow directly. They don’t allow it yet. But she’s doing okay. As okay as she can be I suppose.”

I close my eyes. The relief hits so sharp it hurts. She is going to be okay. Okay is more than I had when I was sitting beside her hospital bed, counting every fucking breath.

“Good,” I say, my voice rough. “That’s good.”

“She’s eating. Attending what they ask her to attend. Resting.” A pause. “And she’s back to writing. Elise cried when they told her.”

I press my free hand against the concrete wall beside me. “That’s...” My throat tightens. I try again. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, it is.”