“What?”
“Terrified,” he said. “And grateful. And ashamed of both.”
I held my mother’s photograph tighter.
“I can’t be Elise.”
“I know.”
“I can’t heal what happened to you.”
“I know that too.”
“Do you?”
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
I stepped back from the car.
“I need somewhere quiet tonight. Not your house.”
A brief conflict passed across his face, but he mastered it.
“All right.”
“I have an appointment tomorrow with a housing office. I was going before any of this happened.”
“I can arrange—”
“No.”
He stopped.
I softened my voice. “I know you mean well. But I need to choose something myself.”
After a moment, he nodded.
“There’s a small guest apartment above my office on Charles Street,” he said. “Separate entrance. You can stay one night. No staff unless you ask. Tomorrow, I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”
“Not drive. Take me.”
A faint hint of amusement touched his mouth. “There’s a difference?”
“There is to me.”
“Then I’ll take you.”
The apartment above his office was small but beautiful, with sloped ceilings, shelves of old books, and windows overlooking a narrow street lit by amber lamps. There were fresh towels in the bathroom, clean sheets on the bed, and a basket of fruit on the kitchen counter that looked like someone had arranged it too carefully.
Damon noticed me looking.
“Marcus,” he said. “He thinks pears solve emergencies.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Damon stood by the door, making no move to enter farther.
“My number is on the table. So is Dr. Vale’s. The downstairs office is empty after six, but security is in the lobby.”
“Damon.”
He stopped.
“Thank you.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out my bracelet.
“I had it cleaned at the clinic while you were resting.”
He placed it in my palm.
The silver still showed a faint bend where Vanessa had stepped on it, but the wildflower was visible again.
My throat tightened.
“My mother used to say wildflowers survive because they don’t ask permission,” I said.
Damon’s expression softened.