Page 215 of The Night Shift

“He’ll be here.”

Her eyes narrow. “So… are you guys a thing now or…?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just asking.” She tries to sit up. “Besides, he can dowaybetter than you. When I go back to school, I’m telling all my teachers about him. Especially Ms. Prestley.”

“Who the hell is Ms. Prestley?”

“My biology teacher. She’s really pretty. Totally Theo’s type. She’s sweet and kind and has a better sense of humor than certain people.”

I can’t help the laugh that slips out. Stupid as it is, Theo Carter wouldn’t last ten minutes with someone like that. Sweet and kind? He needs someone unhinged. Someone with teeth. Someone who sees the fire and walks straight into it. Someone with claws of her own. Whoever that unfortunate person might be.

“You do that,” I say. “Let me know how it goes.”

Kennedy calls after me, saying something about there’s blood in my hair.

I tell her it belongs to the oven screaming baby.

The fluorescent hospital lighting fades behind me as the glass doors slide open and the cold night air smacks me square in the face. Sharp wind, colder than I expected, cuts through my coat as I head into the parking lot.

I’m halfway across the lot when I hear a sharp, two-note whistle.

I turn around.

A black SUV sits under a flickering streetlight trying to blend in with the night, and leaning against it, is a really tall, really good-looking, really infuriating man.

“Headed somewhere?” Theo asks.

There’s a flutter in my chest. I ignore it out of spite and walk toward him. “Did you just whistle at me?”

“Yes,” he says.

“I don’t like it.”

“My apologies, love. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.”

"Oh, before I forget.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a long, rectangular gift-wrapped box. He hands it to me without ceremony.

I frown but take it. Carefully, I peel back the paper, lift the lid and…what the hell? There’s a tiny dark green hammer inside. Compact. Sleek. Deadly. “What is this?”

“Just a little something in case you run into trouble and there aren’t any bricks nearby to smash someone’s head in,” he says, like this is a perfectly rational explanation.

I stare at him. Stunned. “What?”

“It’s small enough to fit in your fanny pack too. I made sure of that when I got it made."

Got it made?

I flip it over and spot something engraved on the handle — tiny, almost invisible unless you’re looking for it:

loml.

My chest does that annoying thing again.

“I wanted to get your name, but figured there's no need to have you directly incriminated if it ever gets caught."