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“That’s the thing,” he says, impatience rising in his voice. “She won’t talk to me.”

“There must be a good reason for that.”

His eyes harden with anger he keeps trying to hide. He turns his attention to Edwin, lowering his voice like that’ll deter me from taking an interest.

“Can you help me get some information? Find out where she is?”

“No,” I state simply.

He snaps his gaze to me. “Look, with all due respect, I’m not talking to you.”

Edwin stands abruptly. His anger changes the energy around us.

“That’s the last time you disrespect her.”

Spencer recoils and rises to his feet.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just a pressing matter. I’m in a hurry to find her.”

“She said no,” Edwin tells him.

“Come on,” Spencer insists, desperation flashing in his eyes. “You know me. Reese and I go way back.”

I stand and make him look at me. “I don’t care who you are. The answer is no.”

One step towards me is all it takes. Edwin moves between us and shoves Spencer’s chest.

Spencer stumbles backwards off the stage, crashes onto a table, and topples to the floor in a mess of startled shouts and spilled drinks. People jump away with wide eyes, looking up to see Edwin’s hand slide into his jacket pocket.

I grab his wrist. “Not in front of a packed crowd, my love.”

After a calming breath, he stares down at Spencer who’s trying to pull himself to his feet. The gun stays in his jacket.

Then he takes my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. Once. Twice. Slowly up my arm in a possessive trail until his mouth reaches mine. He kisses me with everyone watching, a declaration and a warning.

“You keep me sane,” he says when he pulls away.

My grin is uncontrollable. “I try my best.”

Then a voice cuts through the music.

“Zaiya!”

My head snaps towards it. Calista stands by the stage, and at first, I don’t believe it. She’s dressed modestly, at least for her, in a long-sleeved black mini dress. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders.

I step down from the stage. When I reach her, I pull her into my arms, sighing with relief that she wanted to see me. She hugs me back, and we stand there for a long moment as two girls who survived different versions of the same nightmare.

“Come this way,” I say, taking her hand to lead her through a backstage door where the music isn’t so loud.

The hallway is dark, painted all black, but lit enough that I can see her face. She studies me like she’s trying to match the girl she knew to the woman in front of her.

“Perks of the job, huh?” she says with a small smile.

I shrug. “It has its moments.”

I hate this small talk. It exposes our habit of avoiding the larger issues. We’ve kept our distance since everything happened. The silence between us got heavier until it was too much to hold.

“I just wanted to say goodbye,” she says. “It’s getting late, and we have a four-hour drive.”