For what he’s done to Rosa and for the child we lost, Sean Sullivan deserves nothing less than death.
A minute later, Lucas comes back, leading a shaky-looking Rosa out of the hangar. The second she lays eyes on the two men, however, her face regains color and her gaze hardens. Approaching her attacker, she stares down at him for a couple of seconds before raising her eyes to us.
“May I?” she asks, holding out her hand, and Lucas smiles coldly, handing her his rifle. Her hands steady, she aims at her assailant.
“Do it,” Julian says, and I watch yet another man die as his face is blown apart. Before the echo from Rosa’s shot fades, Julian steps toward unconscious Patrick Sullivan and releases a round of bullets into his chest.
“We’re done here,” he says, turning away from the corpse, and the four of us walk back to the plane.
* * *
On the way home, Thomas pilots the plane while Lucas rests in the main cabin with Julian, myself, and Rosa. Upon seeing all of us alive, my mom breaks down in hysterical sobs, so Julian leads my parents into the plane’s bedroom, telling them to take a shower and relax there. I want to go see how they are, but the combination of exhaustion and post-adrenaline slump finally catches up to me.
As soon as we’re in the air, I pass out in my seat, my hand held tightly in Julian’s grip.
I don’t remember landing or getting to the house. The next time I open my eyes, we’re already in our bedroom at home, and Dr. Goldberg is cleaning and bandaging my scrapes. I vaguely recall Julian washing the blood off me on the plane, but the rest of the trip is a blur in my mind.
“Where are my parents?” I ask as the doctor uses tweezers to get a small piece of glass out of my arm. “How are they feeling? And what about Rosa and Lucas?”
“They’re all sleeping,” Julian says, watching the procedure. His face is gray with exhaustion, his voice as weary as I’ve ever heard it. “Don’t worry. They’re fine.”
“I examined them upon arrival,” Dr. Goldberg says, bandaging the sullenly bleeding wound on my arm. “Your father bruised his elbow pretty badly, but he didn’t break anything. Your mother was in shock, but other than a few scratches from the broken glass and a bit of whiplash, she’s fine, as is Ms. Martinez. Lucas Kent has a couple of cracked ribs and a few burns, but he’ll recover.”
“And Julian?” I ask, glancing at my husband. He’s already clean and bandaged, so I know the doctor must’ve seen to him while I was sleeping.
“A mild concussion, same as you, along with first-degree burns on his back, a few stitches in the arm where a bullet grazed him, and some bruising. And, of course, these little wounds from the flying glass.” Taking another piece of glass out of my arm, the doctor pauses, looking at us both as if trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, he says quietly, “I heard about the miscarriage. I’m so sorry.”
I nod, fighting to contain a sudden swell of tears. The pity in Dr. Goldberg’s gaze hurts more than any shard of glass, reminding me of what we lost. The agonizing grief I’d buried during our fight for survival is back, sharper and stronger than ever.
We might’ve survived, but we didn’t emerge unscathed.
“Thank you,” Julian says thickly, getting up and walking over to stand by the window. His movements are stiff and jerky, his posture radiating tension. Apparently realizing his blunder, the doctor finishes treating me in silence and departs with a murmured “good night,” leaving us alone with our pain.
As soon as Dr. Goldberg is gone, Julian returns to the bed. I’ve never seen him this tired. He’s all but swaying as he walks.
“Did you sleep at all on the plane?” I ask, watching as Julian pulls off the T-shirt and sweatpants he must’ve changed into when we got home. My chest aches at the sight of his injuries. “Some bruising” is a serious understatement. He’s black and blue all over, with much of his muscular back and torso wrapped in white gauze.
“No, I wanted to keep an eye on you,” he replies wearily, climbing onto the bed next to me. Lying down facing me, he drapes one arm over my side and draws me closer. “I guessed you might be concussed from that tumble you took in the car,” he murmurs, his face mere inches from mine.
“Oh, I see.” I can’t look away from the intense blue of his gaze. “But you also have a concussion, from the explosion.”
He nods. “Yes, I figured as much. Another reason for me to stay awake earlier.”
I stare at him, my ribcage tightening around my lungs. I feel like I’m drowning in his eyes, getting sucked deeper into those hypnotic blue pools. Unbidden, recollections of the explosion slither into my mind, bringing with them the full horror of these recent events. Julian flying from the blast, Rosa’s rape, the miscarriage, my parents’ terrified faces as we speed down the highway amidst a hail of bullets . . . The horrible scenes jumble together in my brain, filling me with suffocating grief and guilt.
Because I dragged us to that club, in a span of two short days I lost my baby and nearly lost everyone else who matters to me.
The tears that come feel like blood squeezed out of my soul. Each drop burns through my tear ducts, the sounds bursting out of my throat hoarse and ugly. My new world isn’t just dark; it’s black, utterly without hope.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I attempt to curl into a ball, to make myself as small as possible to keep the pain from exploding outward, but Julian doesn’t let me. Wrapping his arms around me, he holds me as I break apart, his big body warming me as he strokes my back and whispers into my hair that we survived, that everything will be all right and we’ll soon go back to normal . . . The low, deep sound of his voice surrounds me, filling my ears until I can’t help but listen, the words providing comfort despite my awareness of their falseness.