When I reopen my eyes, my gaze hits the doorway and I stall, frozen at the unexpected sight. Karissa stands there, leaning quietly against the doorframe, wearing a too-big black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pants, looking like she just crawled out of bed. Her hair is piled wildly on top of her head, knotted and twisted, pieces falling down around her weary face. There are lines on her cheeks, a redness streaking the skin that only comes from an assault of recent tears.

She looks broken, but so goddamn beautiful.

I want to put her back together.

I want to break her down even more.

Her eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens at the distress I find lurking in the depths. There's sadness, yes, but even more I see the fear.

Is she still afraid of me?

Why is she even here?

Sighing, I drag my eyes from hers and look at the detectives again. I'm too exhausted and humiliated and in too much pain to keep up this charade. Jameson is speaking again, going on and on about the same nonsense, about keeping the streets safe, knowing good and damn well I'm one of the worst offenders in this godforsaken city. We both know it, but he can't prove it, so his half-hearted lecture falls on deaf ears, little more than the narcissistic wank of an ignorant man who craves power but can't even take down one measly murderous scumbag.

It burns him.

I'd like to set his house on fire and burn him for real some days.

"You want to know who shot me?" I ask, cutting him off. They both look at me, wide-eyed and hopeful, as Jameson clutches his notebook tightly. "Here, let me spell it for you, to make it easier. I want to make sure it doesn't get lost in translation."

Jameson waves his pen toward me. "I'm ready."

"It's, uh… F-U-C-K. Last name Y-O-U. You got that? Or do you need me to spell it again?"

Before the last word even leaves my lips, Jameson closes his notebook and stands up, shoving it back into his pocket. He knows it's pointless. He's getting not a damn thing from me. He motions toward the door, and Andrews heads that way as Jameson lingers, eyeing me peculiarly like he has something more to say.

Whatever it is, it's a waste of breath, breath he ought to save, because who knows when he might run out of those. He seems to think better of it after a moment and shakes his head, turning away.

Karissa's head is down, her eyes on the floor as she presses her back against the wall right inside the room, moving out of their way. Andrews walks right by her with little more than a scowl on his face, but Jameson pauses and smiles warmly. "Nice to see you again, Miss Reed."

"You, too."

Her voice is low, barely a whispers that cracks around those meager words. Jameson leaves, the uniformed officers trailing behind him, leaving the two of us alone.

I can't believe she's actually here.

It's dead silent, except for the noises out in the hallway. Karissa stands there for a moment before her eyes shift that way, like she's thinking of jetting out the door already. My stomach coils at the thought of her leaving, but I force the feeling back as I clear my throat, knowing she won't be the one to break this silence.

"You're here."

She doesn't respond right away, her eyes drifting along the scuffed linoleum floor again, before her gaze finally shifts my way. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Because you hate me.

Because I killed your father.

Because your mother's next, and based on that look in your eyes, I think you know it.

"Because you weren't here when I woke up this morning."

"Oh." She pushes away from the wall to trudge through the room, plopping down on the black chair that remained vacant all night long without her. She kicks off her flip flops and pulls her filthy feet up, tucking them beneath her as she settles in. "Well, we're not related, and they only let family stay overnight, so…"

"So they wouldn't let you back here."

"Yes."

Anger stirs inside of me. It's one thing for her not to come; it's another thing for them to turn her away. I can't fault her, as much as it stings, but I most certainly will hold it against them. "Did you tell them who you are to me?"

"No." Her voice is even smaller now. "You were out of it, so it wouldn't have mattered. I just stayed down in the waiting room until they told me you were awake."

"You stayed there all night?"

She nods slightly, tinkering with her hands, picking at her nails. My gaze shifts to them, the skin pink and scrubbed raw. I wonder how many times to washed her hands to rid them of my blood. Her engagement ring is visibly absent, a fact that doesn't surprise me. She never even put it back on.

Maybe it's an act of rebellion.

A way to assert some control in an out-of-control situation.

Or maybe she wants nothing to do with ever marrying me.

I don't ask her about it, though, and she's never brought it up. She sits there silently, attention focused on her lap, before she lets out a sigh. "I thought you were going to die."

I can't tell how she feels from her hollow voice, so I ask a question I dread. "Are you disappointed I didn't?"

It's like zero to sixty in a second flat, her head turning, narrowed eyes meeting mine. Tears swim in the corners, threatening to spill over as she glares at me with so much hostility, if I weren't so goddamn injured, I might move away from it. The woman tells me I'm a monster, but there's a little beast in her that she unleashes from time to time.