For a while, there was only the sound of the old building settling and the distant wail of a siren on Ponce. Angie reached out and touched the scar on his cheek—the one shaped like a question mark, the one he never talked about. Her fingertip was cold and trembling.
He didn't move. He reached over, took the bottle from her, and set it aside. Then he took her raw, bloody knuckles in his hands—his large, careful hands that could pick a lock or cradle a newborn—and held them. will trent angie
She stared at him, and for a long moment, the anger flared—the hot, familiar rage she used as a shield. But then, like a candle drowning in wax, it flickered and went out. Her shoulders sagged. A single tear, traitorous and silent, traced a clean line through the grime on her cheek. For a while, there was only the sound
"I've got you."
"Of me?"
"You look tired," she said.