Page 13 of Girl Anonymous

“I won’t. I’m tougher than I currently seem.” As Julie tucked her into the passenger seat, Maarja said, “Thank you. For everything.”

“Hmph.” Julie shut the door, whipped the wheelchair around and headed back inside.

Dante put his arm across the back of the seat and scowled at Maarja. “You don’t need to act like I’ve got cooties. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to assault you.”

All right, fine. He was going to make a thing about her flinching at his touch, and surprisingly, having Julie instruct her tonot put up with any shitmade Maarja feel stronger. “It’s not you. I don’t like to be touched.”

“At all?”

“When I was eleven, there was a…bad moment.”

It took him a minute to realize she was done talking. Any conclusions he would draw would be right enough. “Good to know. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“Thank you.” She watched as he put the car in gear and drove onto the street. He took a route she didn’t know, and she asked the question she should have asked first. “Are you taking me home?”

“You’re in no shape to be alone.”

“Someone will come from the firm.”

“We’re going to my condo in the city.”

“What? No! I don’t want—”

His hand slashed the air between them. “You put your life at risk to save my mother. I owe you everything. I owe you protection. I owe you my life, and I will sacrifice for you.”

“No. You owe me nothing! I did it because she—” Maarja’s voice stumbled. “Because she was a kind and lovely lady who—”

“It doesn’t work that way. You know that.” His low tone grew harsh. “You and I, we live in a world of revenge and reparation.”

“What do you mean?” She spoke quickly, leaning away from his possible implication. “I don’t live in that world.”

“Look at politics. Look at the news. Look at the school shootings and the mass shootings in public places. You have no choice.You were born to this world, and if you try to ignore it, you could be dead in truth.”

She could slash her hand as well as he could. “I take care of myself.”

“When you’re recovered, you can take care of yourself.” He glanced at her as the streetlights blew past, light angles changing, creating an eerie movie-like set. “Whether or not you want me to feel a debt, I do.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. Now close your eyes. You look like hell.”

By the time they pulled into an underground garage and stopped, she’d fallen asleep half a dozen times, and when he helped her out she didn’t have the oomph to argue. He didn’t mock her, she could say that for him, but got her up the elevator forty stories, into his condo, tossed back the sheets on a bed, and left her to toe off her shoes and collapse. Which she did. She slept four hours before her bladder demanded she rise and empty it.

Damned intravenous fluids.

Dante had left the light on in the bathroom, and she stumbled in, locked the door behind her, used the toilet, and stepped to the sink to wash her hands—and gasped in dismay.

Her reflection in the mirror was nothing short of a horror show. Gripping the edge of the cool marble counter, she leaned in.

The staff at the hospital had wiped her face and hands, and anywhere they hadn’t wiped was covered in black sooty streaks. She’d known the ends of her bangs had singed, and her eyebrows and lashes, but she hadn’t realized her skin looked as if she’d stayed in the sun too long. No wonder Dante said she looked like hell.

She wanted to go back to sleep, but she couldn’t. Knowing she was so covered with greasy smoke…she had to wash.

The bathroom was decorated in soothing shades of peachwith blue accents and European styling. The glass shower occupied one corner, the big bathtub occupied the wall under the window, a bidet sat beside the toilet, and the whole place was so luxurious she muttered about a fur-lined pee-pot, then decided she’d grown sour and envious in her old age.

She took a few minutes to figure out the shower—it vaguely resembled an airplane control pit—and started the water. She stripped off, dropped her formerly white coveralls in a corner—they were black and singed, too, and not worth saving—threw her panties, bra, and socks on top, and stepped into the spray. The spray that came from all directions. It rained on her from above, from the wall in front, and one handheld sprayed at her chest. On the wall to the side, another pulsed at her butt. She used a washcloth to work the citrus-and-lavender soap into a lather, and discovered it cut the sooty grease as if it had been created for that—and the scent relaxed her with every breath.

Dante could have his fur-lined pee-pot with her blessing as long as she could shower herself clean in here every day.

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