“Is not here,” he finishes.

“I know she is.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m her—”

“No, you’re not.”

It takes everything I’ve got not to grab him by the throat and squeeze the answers out. “Are you FBI? Are you with the Marshalls? Your department’s job was security—keeping her safe.” My cheek twitches. “Bang-up job they’re doing, Skippy.”

“I have no information for you. It’s time for you to go. Now.”

“Is she alive?” My voice sounds like a captive who’s been tortured for intel, and is finally broken. “Just give me that, for fuck’s sake.”

I don’t care about the rest—her hair, her face, her arms, her legs—they don’t matter. I’ll love her without them. As long as she’s still breathing. As long as she’s still her.

Stone-face gives me jack shit. “Information on an active case can only be given to immediate family. I’m not confirming that there is an active case, but if there was—you are no one’s immediate family. So I have nothing for you. I won’t be telling you to leave again.”

I move forward, ready to get in his face, but Sofia’s hand on my arm pulls me back. “Come on, Brent. That’s not going to help. Let’s go.”

I let her pull me outside to the sidewalk.

“Fuck!” I push my palms against my eyes. “God fucking damn it!”

Was this what it was like for my parents after my accident? While they waited for the doctor to come out to tell them if I’d made it?

It’s like there’s a hot poker under my ribs, pressing against my stomach, my lungs, my heart. Burning me alive slowly, from the inside.

I drop my hands and turn toward the door. “I’m going back in to talk to that agent. I’ll make him—”

Stanton steps into my path. “You’ll get arrested. Not the way to go, man.”

I grind my jaw so hard the sound echoes in my eardrums.

Jake puts his hand on my shoulder, and his voice is clear and calming. “Brent, pull it together. You have resources: take a breath and call them.”

I’ve always hated assholes who use their money and connections to exert undue influence—and believe me, I’ve known a lot of them. But at this moment, I’ve never been more grateful for my last name. Because it opens doors.

I take my phone out and dial. “Dad? I need your help. Do we know anyone in the U.S. Marshal’s Service?”

When he replies, my eyebrows go up. “The director, huh? That’s convenient. Can you call him for me?”

• • •

Ten minutes later, Urban Cowboy walks back into the waiting room. “Brent Mason.”

I stand, but when the four of us move to him, he puts up a hand like a traffic cop. “Just you.”

I’m immediately engulfed in Sofia’s strong embrace. “Call us as soon as you can—let us know how she’s doing.”

“I will.”

Jake squeezes my shoulder, Stanton smacks my back. “Anything you need.”

“Thanks.”

Then I get into the elevator with Super Cop. As the doors close, he tells me, “She’s all right.”

My lungs collapse. Deflate. Like I’ve been holding my breath for a millennia—waiting to hear those words.

“Broken arm, two cracked ribs, some facial contusions, but nothing serious.”

Okay. She’s injured, but she’ll heal. I’ll help her heal.

Thank you, God.

As the elevator starts to rise, I feel his eyes on me. “My supervisor called, told me to get you upstairs straight away.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“He said the director called him personally.”

“That sounds about right.”

He pauses for a beat and then asks, “Who the hell are you?”

There’s only one way I can answer. I lower my voice and look him in the eyes. “I’m Batman.”

And he actually cracks a smile. Then the elevator opens on the tenth floor and he leads me down a hallway. There are a few agents milling about, but only one door has an armed guard stationed outside. They nod to each other, the marshal opens the door, and I step in alone.

The lights are low, the blinds closed. Kennedy’s propped up in a hospital bed, her left arm encased in plaster hanging in a sling. I stand there for a minute, reminding myself that she’s alive; looking her over, taking in every mark, every bruise. Her face is a mess—bottom lip split in the middle, caked with black dried blood; her left cheek is scraped raw, already starting to turn purple; the eye above it is swollen completely shut; and there’s a row of stiches at her hairline.

“You’re here.” Her voice is soft—raspy—like her throat is sore.

And then I’m sitting on the bed, cupping the uninjured side of her jaw. She leans into my palm, and my throat strangles so tight I can barely get the words out. “You’re okay?”

She tries to smile, but can’t quite manage it with her lip. Her good eye gazes back at me—that sweet, soft golden brown. “I’m okay.”

My other hand gently—so gently—runs through her hair, over her shoulder, settling on her chest, soaking up the feeling of her heart beating strong and steady beneath it. I swallow hard and my eyelids burn, because she’s my Kennedy and she’s hurt . . . and I could’ve lost her. For good.

“Jesus, Kennedy . . . let me just . . .” I can’t finish. Instead I pull her into my arms, chest to chest. I turn my face into her neck, breathing against her soft skin that still smells like peaches beneath the scent of hospital antiseptic. She’s trembling, so I stroke her hair and rub her back and rock her slowly, resting my lips against her temple.