Chapter 15 · Behind the Closed Panel

The glass in the window frame was still rattling when he said it.

"These aren't fresh cuts."

"I know what they are." I wedged my forearm against his sternum. It was like bracing against concrete. He was throwing off heat like a furnace, my shirt was soaked through and plastered to my skin, and I didn't need a mirror to know it was completely see-through. "They're mine. Drop it."

Owen didn't back off an inch.

Instead, he reached past my temple. I flinched—hard, automatic, the kind of reflex you don't unlearn after a bad year. His hand stopped midair. Fingers open. He just held still, letting the silence hang until I dragged my breathing under control.

Then he shove-clicked the edge of the mirror.

It didn't swing on a regular hinge. The whole sheet swung out, opening into a shallow steel cavity recessed straight into the stone wall. The shelves were stocked like an off-grid trauma bay. Sterile gauze packs. Suture trays with stamped expiration dates. A blued revolver on a lower rack, cylinder resting open and oiled. A locked tin cash box. A bottle of rye with two fingers missing.

I looked at the gun.