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“You gonna run away or something?” Emiel asked, dragging me right back to Earth. “From SSG?”
“If I was smart, I would’ve run years ago,” I muttered.
“But you didn’t,” Emiel said.
“I said‘if’I was smart.”
“But you didn’t,” he repeated, a bit firmer this time. “If you didn’t run, why should she? The police actually give a shit about her. She’s famous.”
I had the impression that being a celebrated chef was a very specific flavor of fame, but his point was valid. Mia mattered to society in a way that Emiel and I—and Byron, for that matter—didn’t.
But still...
“I just want her to be safe. You know how the gangs are.” I picked at the seam of my sleeve, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he said after a long pause.
Princess stretch-walked her front paws up the length of my right leg, her tiny claws digging into the denim of my jeans. I rubbed a thumb against her cheek, feeling her press into the contact.
“You gonna do it?” Emiel asked, somewhat cryptically.
I glanced up at him, a dark shape against my wall. The wedge of light from the hall illuminated one side of his face and body with a thin halo of bright yellow-orange.
“Do what? Run?” I asked, knowing that the answer wasno, and that I was still an idiot after all these years.
“Not that,” Emiel said. “You planning on seeing someone about... you know.”
Oh.
“I think so, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “What about you?”
“I don’t wanna talk about that stuff to a stranger.” The words were gruff.
“Emiel,” I said, “literally no oneis excited about spilling their guts to a therapist. But is it seriously any worse than getting the shit beat out of you by a stranger in a cage fight?”
“Course it is.” He sounded almost offended by the question.
“Speak for yourself. Just so you know that you’re not some kind of special snowflake because the idea of talking about it in counseling makes you want to puke. That’s actually all of us.”
The ensuing silence might’ve been because I’d offended him, or it might’ve been because he was thinking about what I’d said.
“Guess so,” he said, when it threatened to grow too heavy.
“Damn right,” I told him.
Conversation with Emiel held a different rhythm than conversation with most other people. Maybe I was starting to get used to it, because the lull this time didn’t make me itch with the need to fill it.
“You gonna be okay?” Emiel asked. “That’s why I’m up here... not the other stuff. Mia asked me to come check on you.”
On the floor below, I could hear footsteps moving; the front door opening and closing. Apparently, the strategy meeting had broken up. I wondered, with a hint of trepidation, what conclusions they’d come to—if any.
“I’d be a lot more okay if Blaze and his cronies died in a fire,” I said, unable to completely hide my bitterness.
Emiel grunted. “There’d just be more assholes lining up to take their place.”
But those other hypothetical assholes didn’t rape me and keep me prisoner, I thought, being careful not to say it aloud.
“I’m fine,” I said instead.