TINSELS POV...
The front door opens at 2:17 a.m.
I'm awake because I don't sleep after 1 a.m. anymore. Two years in Aunt Christine's yellow room broke that part of me.
I'm on Gregory Hale's couch because my apartment on Panther Street is gone. Gas leak. Explosion. Fire department said "you're lucky you weren't home." I was. I just don't burn.
Gregory walks in first. Suit jacket off. Tie gone. Knuckles split and bleeding. He sees me in his t-shirt, under his coat from six nights ago when he found me on Panther Street and said "you work for me or you starve."
He stops. "You're here."
"Your doorman had my name," I say. "You told him to let me up if—"
"If you ever get in trouble," he finishes. He drags a hand through his hair. Makes the blood smear. "Shit. You okay?"
Before I can answer, the door opens again.
Zack Finson. Gregory's assistant. My coworker of six days. He's in sweatpants and a Hale Industries hoodie, phone in hand, eyes wide. "Boss? I saw the dispatch alert for Panther Street. Then your location pinged here. Is she—" He sees me. Stops. "Tinsel. God. Are you okay?"
I nod. Don't speak. Six days isn't long enough to know if his worry is real.
Gregory looks at Zack. Then at me. Then back at Zack. "She's fine. We're fine."
Zack doesn't move. "You want me to call—"
"Go home, Zack." Gregory's voice isn't loud. It's final. "It's 2 a.m. You're off the clock."
Zack's jaw ticks. Just once. Then he nods. "Right. Yeah. Okay." He looks at me again. "If you need anything, Tinsel. Anything. You have my number."
I don't. He never gave it to me.
He leaves. The door shuts. The lock clicks.
Then it's quiet. Just me, Gregory, and the sound of the city 43 floors down.
Gregory exhales. Rolls his shoulders like he's taking off armor. Walks to the kitchen and grabs a dish towel. Wraps it around his knuckles.
"You're bleeding," I say.
"No shit." He doesn't look at me.
I stand. His coat slides off my shoulders. I caught it. Hold it out to him.
He stares at it. Then at me. Takes it, but doesn't put it on. He drapes it back over my shoulders instead.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I'm not cold."
"Didn't say you were." He walks to the thermostat on the wall. It's 72. He bumps it to 74. "Building's drafty."
Liar.
He goes to his room. Stops in the doorway. Doesn't turn around. "My room's the one at the end of the hall. Door locks from the inside. Use it if you want. Or stay out here. I don't care."
Another lie. He does care. That's why he told me which door locks.
His door shuts. Quiet. Not a slam.
I stand there in his t-shirt, his coat, 74 degrees, with his blood on the dish towel and his assistant's fake "you have my number" hanging in the air.
Six nights ago he found me. Six days ago he hired me.
Tonight he told Zack to go home.
Like I'm his to send people away from.