Time stopped for Holly the day of the car crash. She’s been defying death, defying time, for all these years, and she’s not going to stop now.
“We’re here, Dr. Darling.”
She looks up. She’s been so caught in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed they’ve arrived at the airport. And as if on cue, an alert dings on her phone. Her flight has been delayed. While she hesitates, trying to decide what to do, another ding—now it’s canceled.
Shit.
“Give me a second,” she tells the driver. She calls her travel agent. “What’s the best you can do?” she asks. “I have to get to London today.”
There’s a pause as the woman reviews her itinerary. “Your flight was full, and so are the subsequent ones,” she says. “There’s a whole line of storm fronts with high winds coming in, so it’s going to be a while. But there’s a flight leaving . . . let’s see . . . I can get you on a flight at eight.”
“Tonight?” Holly bites her lip in frustration.
“I need to know right now, before it’s gone.”
“Fine. Yes, I’ll take it,” Holly says. “But keep trying for something earlier.”
“I’ll do my best, but I can tell you it’s unlikely,” the woman says.
After she disconnects the call, Holly considers her options and decides to go home. Her head is still sore and she’s exhausted. This way she can rest, get some work done, then have the car service pick her up with Jack’s bags. She’ll surprise him after practice and drop him at Barry’s herself before heading back to the airport. She’s certain he’s still upset that she won’t let him stay home alone, and she hates leaving with tension between them. Maybe she’ll even stop and pick up his favorite pizza as a peace offering along the way.
Traffic is snarled, and by the time she gets home, the rain is sheeting down. She’s soaked in the few steps from the car to the door, and her leg is twinging again. She’s glad she decided to go home instead of to the office—she’ll take a hot bath before she picks up Jack. She’d like to reapply the cream too, but she knows from experience its potency lessens if she uses it too often.
As she reaches the door, a tall figure brushes past her, face obscured by a hoodie. The person is in such a hurry he bumps her shoulder as he passes. The doorman scowls at him before offering to take her luggage, but she waves him off, takes her bag to the elevator, and then it’s blessedly quiet. Except, as she steps out onto her floor, it’s not. There’s a low heavy throb in the air, thumping through the walls so hard it reverberates in her chest. It takes her a second or so to realize it’s actually music, another second to realize that the sound is coming from her apartment. She tests the doorknob—locked. Could she somehow have left the speakers on? Or perhaps Manuela came back for something, although Holly for the life of her cannot imagine her grandmotherly housekeeper listening to music with a bass line like this. She unlocks the door, cautiously opens it. And in a glance understands everything.
Two of Jack’s friends are lounging on her couch, dirty sneakers draped across either end. Beer cans litter the coffee table in front, and there is the faint but unmistakable aroma of pot. Jack himself is leaning against the kitchen wall, holding a cloth to his nose. Blood is dripping down his shirt, puddling onto the floor.
Eden’s blood.
One of the boys must have heard or sensed the door opening over the music. He raises his head and sees her. It’s Brett Pike.
“Oh, shit,” he says. “Dude. Your mom.”
But Holly’s already moving past him to Jack, fear propelling her forward. “What happened? Where are you hurt?” she says, taking the cloth from his face. His nose is grotesquely swollen.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he says, his voice nasally. He takes the cloth back. “I got punched in the nose, is all. It’s no big deal.”
She looks at him, at the blood on his shirt, and suddenly she’s furious. At the waste. The price she’s paid—the things she’s done—and for this? And then it occurs to her that more is at stake.
“Did you bleed on them? On anyone else?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She crosses the room before he has a chance to speak, inspects Brett, the other boy. Their eyes are red, their breath smells like beer, but there’s no blood and, more importantly, no visible cuts on their skin. Satisfied, she jerks her head at the door. “Out. Now.”