Chapter 11 · Lea Won't Buy It

The key's still warm in my pocket. Blood's drying under my nails.

I'm standing outside Lea's apartment at three in the morning with a hole in my jacket and a story she's never going to believe. The hallway smells like burnt coffee and someone's leftover Thai food. My hand's shaking when I knock.

She opens the door in an old med school hoodie and shorts. Hair tied back. No makeup. She takes one look at me and her jaw tightens.

"Mark."

"I need—"

"Inside. Now."

She pulls me through the door and locks it behind us. Checks the peephole. Then she turns and I see it. The look she used to give rookies who lied about being fine before they bled out in the field.

"Sit," she says.

I sit.

Her place is small. Clean. Books stacked on the coffee table, a half-finished mug of tea next to her laptop. It's the kind of life people build when they get out. When they stop waiting for the next call that ends with a body bag.

She grabs her med kit from under the sink and kneels in front of me. Doesn't say a word.