I breathe in slow, painful air, my lungs burning against the motion because home is the one place Emma needs to go, and I’ve gone and ruined that, too.
“I’m taking you home with me,” I say, her eyes wide on mine. She’s so frightened and in shock. “I don’t want you to be alone, and we can’t…we can’t stay here.”
I swallow hard, not wanting to give her details right now, not wanting to pile on her nightmare with more. She doesn’t ask, but instead lets her head fall forward, nodding in agreement. She’s letting me take control.
“Let’s go inside and get some of your things,” I glance to Sam, silently asking him to let me help with this. Our eyes meet, and I know he’s in my corner.
Sam holds the door open for us, and I walk with her weight against me, my eyes meeting his once more. We follow Sam to the elevator, and he calls a car down for us to step inside. I nod to him once more as the doors slam to a close between us. Emma’s breathing is steady, but every breath is deep and labored, almost like she’s trying to self-soothe, but failing miserably.
“Emma,” I hum her name, cradling her to me. She shivers when I speak, and I shut my eyes wishing I could do more, wishing we were past so many things so I could give her the love she needs right now.
I follow her into her apartment, pausing at the door to her bedroom as her body slips away from mine long enough to grab a small bag. She stuffs handfuls of clothing in, not really paying much attention. I step inside her room finally and push her hands down, holding them still.
“Go get your things in the bathroom. Let me do this. I’ll do it right. I swear,” I say, looking at the stack of thin shirts she’s packed while the weather outside is in the low fifties. She shakes her head okay then moves to the bathroom.
I work quickly, grabbing a few sweaters from her closet, pulling jeans from shelves and emptying her underwear drawer without looking. I don’t know what she wants or needs to be comfortable, so I take a little bit of everything; I can give her my things to stay warm, too.
Knowing Emma, I also grab her backpack, pulling the zipper fully open to slide the books strewn about her desk inside. I stop suddenly though at a familiar sight. My letters are scattered in her bag, some of them in a large envelope, others pushed far into the bag, bent and folded as if she hid them in a hurry. I listen for her in the bathroom and decide to brave a glance at the large envelope containing most of them.
Emma,
From Dad
My body rushes with a wave of panic, but the sound of Emma shutting the medicine cabinet across the hallway jolts me from the numbness that I want to swim in. My letters. Carl—he brought them to her. Emma—she read them. At least…some of them. I stuff her books on top quickly, knowing that when she can, she’ll realize that I saw them.
“Here, make sure I got what you need,” I say, distracting her with the other bag. Her eyes widen at the sight of her backpack, but I turn my attention away so she doesn’t give it more thought than she can afford to now. “I’m getting us a ride.”
She nods once, then lowers herself to sit on her bed, her overnight bag in her lap so she can stare into it. I don’t think she’s really looking at anything, but I feel pretty sure that I put enough of everything inside for her to be all right for a few days.
My phone rings in my ear while I watch her.
“Yo, what-up with the cryptic texts you jerk?” Trent asks, his laughter light. I need him to be serious now, and I also can’t work through his logic and reason and the million ways that this is a bad idea and how so much of it is probably my fault.
“Trent, I need you. It’s Emma. She’s—” I glance to her and step into the hallway. “That fucker did something to her, hurt her, Trent. She’s here, and Lindsey’s gone. And I know I have a shit-ton to fill you in on, but Emma’s hurt. I need you to come get us.”
There’s a brief silence.
“I’ll be right there,” he says. “Text me the address.”
“Thank you, Trent. Jesus…just…thank you,” I say, relaxing a little knowing he’s coming. I hang up and send him the address to Emma’s building then return my focus to Emma, who is still an ice statue on the edge of her bed.
“Trent’s coming. Let’s get you downstairs,” I say, lowering enough to thread my arm around her and lift her gently along with me.
We take slow steps out of her apartment, and I take her key to lock up behind us. Sam greets us at the end of the hall, the elevator held open. I’m not sure if he did that to keep an eye on me or to help us move Emma smoothly downstairs. Right now, it doesn’t really matter.