She was holding a cracked leather purse tight against her chest like a shield. She didn't look up when Dean's heavy boots splashed through the puddle in front of the bench. "Ma'am," Dean said, keeping his voice low, unthreatening. She flinched, her head snapped up. Her eyes were milky blue and wide with a very specific hollow kind of terror.
The 42," she rasped. Her lips were a frightening shade of blue. Her jaw trembled so hard her teeth clicked together. "It's late. I need the 42. " "The 42 doesn't run past 10, ma'am," Dean said gently.
"It's almost midnight. " She stared at him. The information didn't process. She looked down at her bare wrist. I have to be home. Audrey is going to be upset.
She worries. She's She's very busy. I just went to get the good bread. Dean noticed her shoes, leather flats, completely ruined. No socks.
Her ankles were modeled purple from the cold. If she stayed out here another hour, she was going to die. It was a simple clinical fact. Hypothermia didn't care if you were waiting for the 42. "Okay," Dean said.
He took a step closer and draped the heavy wool blanket over her shoulders. She stiffened. But as the weight and warmth settled on her, she leaned into it with a pathetic little whimper. "Let's get you out of the rain. We can call your family from my place.
It's just right there. " He pointed to the garage. I don't know you," she said. It was a weak attempt at defiance. "My name's Dean. I'm a mechanic.
My kid is asleep upstairs, and I'm too tired to be a serial killer. Come on. " He didn't wait for her to argue. He reached down, gripped her elbow, and hauled her to her feet. She was shockingly light, like a bundle of dried twigs wrapped in wet cotton. She leaned heavily against him as he guided her across the flooded street, up the metal stairs, and into the cramped warmth of the apartment.
The blast of the space heater hit them both. Dean locked the door behind them. He peeled the wet trench coat off her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a high-end silk blouse that was totally inappropriate for the weather. "Sit," he command, pointing to the worn love seat.
He went to the tiny kitchenet, filled the kettle, and turned on the stove. When he looked back, she was sitting rigidly on the edge of the cushions, staring at Noah's sleeping form. "He's beautiful," she whispered. "He's a handful," Dean corrected, tossing her a clean, dry towel. "Dry your hair. " "What's your name? " "Martha," she said, rubbing the towel over her head.
Okay, Martha. What's Audrey's phone number? Martha stopped. The towel dropped to her lap. She looked around the cheap apartment, the water stains on the ceiling, the stack of past due bills on the counter, the lenolum floor peeling at the corners, her brow furrowed.
The fog rolled back into her eyes. "Audrey? " she asked, her voice tight with sudden confusion. I don't I don't know. The numbers are gone. They were in my head and now they're gone.