Chapter 26 · The Nursery Gate

I heard the banging before I hit the third-floor landing.

Not crying. Willa didn't cry. Crying made noise, and sound was the thing she gave up at three years old, kneeling in the bed of her father's truck while the harbor burned.

This was her whole body throwing itself against the iron.

"Willa. Baby, stop. You're gonna break a finger—"

I took the stairs two at a time. My flank fired white-hot, that old tear under my ribs pulling like a barbed hook. Didn't matter. I pushed through it.

She was on the wrong side of the gate.

Barefoot. Wet hair from her bath plastered to her cheek. She had my gray sweatshirt balled against her ribs—the one she'd dragged off the rocking chair and refused to give up—and she was slamming the heel of her hand into the bars. One-two. One-two. Steady. Desperate.

"Hey. I'm right here. Look at me."

I dropped hard on the landing, knees hitting the cold floorboards on the other side of the bars.

She froze. Then she shoved her small hand through the gap.

I grabbed it. Fingers like ice cubes, clamping down until my knuckles popped.

"I've got you," I breathed.