Gregory's POV...
I didn't plan to end up on Panthers street.
Hell, panther street wasn't even on the city grid anymore. Not officially. It was a dead strip we bought six months ago under the "Riverside Renewal Project." My project.
I came down here alone because I don't trust site reports. Numbers lie. Drone photos lie. You want to know a place, you walk it.
That was the idea anyway.
My fuel gauge was lying too. The Maybach died two miles back, right where the road turns to cracks and weeds. Phone died five minutes after that. No bars, no cars. Just me, a dead luxury sedan, and a part of the city that pretended to exist.
By the time I hit the skeleton of the gas station, the sun was bleeding out. I'd been walking for an hour in dress shoes. My assistant zack was probably already calling the press, police and a priest. There was a "stars party" tonight –some donor thing with my face on the invitations. I was supposed to be there smiling, shaking hands and answering Gregory Hale.
Instead I was building a fire in a ring of stones because I wasn't stupid to be sitting alone out here in the dark.
The fire took on. Barely. I found a dented kettle in the debris and some old newspaper. It was pathetic but it was warm. I let it burn while I stood to check around. Old habits. My father drilled it into me: "Know your exits, Greg."
When I came back from grabbing more sticks, the fire wasn't alone anymore.
There was a girl sitting at it.
She was on her knees, shoving branches into the flames like she was trying to kill them. Her hands were shaking. She had this ugly, tiny sack bag tied around her waist like a golden treasure. And she was bleeding. A lot. Her palm was open, blood running down her wrist, dripping onto the dirt.
She hadn't heard me. She was too focused on the fire, muttering something under her breath.
"Careful," I said. "You'll hurt yourself worse than whatever you're running from."
She flinched like I'd fired a gun. Scrambled back, clutching her hand to her chest, eyes wide. For a second I thought she'd bolt. She looked like she was ready to.
I didn't move. Rule one of cornered things: don't crowd them. I crouched and tossed her my handkerchief. It was monogrammed, stupid but clean.
"Wrap it. Pressure."
"Who are you?" her voice was hoarse. Young but accusing.
"Gregory." Just Gregory. Out here that was all I was. "And you're sitting at my fire."
She glared at me, blood and dirt on her face and said, "my fire now."
That almost made me laugh. Almost.
I stayed on my side of the ring, asked what she was doing out here alone. She answered uninterested. I didn't push. I told her I was lost - which was true in more ways than one. Car died, phone died. Waiting for sunrise.
She didn't know who I was. That was obvious. No recognition, no fear, no sudden shift into performance. She just wrapped her hand badly, and stared at the flames like they might go out if she blinked.
So we talked, not about her, not about me. About the fire. About crows – one had apparently hit her earlier. About how night lies and tells you it's forever.
I broke sticks for her, showed her how to snap them without catching the edge. She listened like it was a survival training, which for her, it probably was.
She crashed before midnight. Not long after did she start shivering from cold and I took off my expensively designed coat, though stained with dust and covered her. I didn't sleep after, I watched the road. Old habits again.
Sunrise brought zack alongside the cavalry. Six SUVs, earpieces, the whole circus. I heard them before I saw them.
I stood up, brushed the dust off my shirt, and just like that, I wasn't Greg anymore. I was Hale again.
The girl was awake, staring at all of it – the cars, the suits, zack yelling into his phone. She looked small, confused.
Our eyes caught for a second.
That's when I actually saw her. Blood and dirt, hair tucked to her cheeks, an ugly sack bag that she had clinged unto her waist like an armor that had lost the war. And even like that -she was beautiful. Bright, tiny eyes that hadn't slept safe in years. Sharp, sexy nose. Small lips bitten raw from holding words back. A face that would haunt you if you let it.
My chest did something stupid. Something I buried before it showed.
So I killed it. Face blank. Jaw set. "Gregory Hale doesn't do feelings at crime scenes."
I walked past her.
I didn't say anything. What was I supposed to say? "Thanks for sharing my fire"? "Sorry about the media storm that's about to hit you"?
But my hands twitched towards her. Just once. Just enough that I had to shove it in my pockets to stop it.
No. Gregory Hale doesn't do that. He gets in the car.
So I did.
Only then did I let myself exhale. Only then did I let myself think: she's bleeding, she's alone. Zack better had given her that card.
I heard Zack behind me as the door shut. Heard his voice, clipped and efficient: "Call if you need to." Heard the cameras start. Someone yelled "That's her, That's the girl who found him!"
We pulled out. I didn't look back.
But I could still smell the smoke. And cedar. And blood on linen.