Chapter 8: The Parking Garage

The parking garage was three levels down and colder than the street.

I got as far as the second ramp before my heel snapped.

It went sideways under me, and I caught the concrete wall with one hand.

"Don't move," Wyatt said.

He knelt on the concrete in his good suit, took my ankle in his hand, and slid the broken shoe off.

His palm was warm and rough, and it stayed around the bone of my ankle a moment longer than the shoe needed.

I put my other hand on his shoulder for balance.

I kept it there after I had balance.

Neither of us said anything.

He took off his coat and stood, and then it was on my shoulders, heavy and smelling of cedar and old paper.

"You're shaking," he said.

"It's cold."

"It is."

I looked up at him.

His face was a foot from mine.

He had a small scar through his left eyebrow I hadn't noticed before, and his jaw was tight.

I took hold of his wrist to push his hand away from my collar.

Under my thumb, his pulse was going fast.

It's the stairs, I told myself.

There had been no stairs.

"Deanna," he said.

It was only my name, said low.

I could have leaned in.

For a second I wanted to so badly my hand tightened on his arm.

Then I heard my own voice, flat and bright.

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