“Fuck,” she says. “My briefcase . . . ”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I couldn’t get anything out.”

Riona sits silent for a minute. I know she’s mentally tallying up everything that was in that apartment. Every fancy pair of shoes or favorite book or keepsake that she loved. All gone.

Finally, she says, “You got me out.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was pretty fucking close, but we got out of there together.”

Now I do hazard a look in her direction, and I see her pale green eyes looking large and sad in her filthy face. The sooty streaks make her look very young, like a kid that was playing in the dirt. Her hair is so tangled and smoky that it looks closer to brown than red. There’s no telling what color her silk camisole set used to be.

The effect is pathetic. It gives me a pang of guilt. I feel like I should have protected her better. It was my job to be her bodyguard, and I let her whole apartment burn down around her.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Riona sighs. “You don’t have to apologize,” she says quietly. “You saved my life.”

“Well,” I say, “keep that spirit of gratitude. ‘Cause I am taking you to Silver Run. Even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there.”

That green fire flares up in Riona’s eyes again. “You think you always know best, don’t you?” she says.

I shrug. “Any idea’s better than no idea.”

Riona frowns, crossing her slim arms over her chest. “We’re going to have to stop somewhere,” she says. “I need clothing. Also, I’m starving.”

“Me too,” I say, smiling a little. “At least we can agree on that.”

* * *

We stop in Seymour and pay for a room at the Motel 6 so we can both shower and clean up. While Riona is in the shower, I go to the outlet store next door to buy clothes for both of us. The clerk gives me a bland stare as I walk through the door, filthy dirty, in my boxer shorts, boots, and an oversized hoodie I found in the trunk of Dante’s car.

“I need a shirt,” I tell him.

“You want pants, too?” he says.

The women’s section doesn’t have a whole lot of selection, but I pick out a few things for Riona that I think will fit her. I don’t bother with coats, because even after a few hours driving south, I can already feel the temperature warming up. November in Tennessee is nothing like November in Chicago. It’ll probably be seventy degrees.

The clerk bags up my purchases, and I carry them back to the motel, not wanting to be gone too long.

I lay out Riona’s stuff on the cheap, scratchy bedspread. Then I trade places with her once she comes out of the shower. I try to give her room in the confined space, and not look at her with just a white towel wrapped around her body, her wet hair dark around her shoulders. It’s hard to keep my eyes on the floor. This is the only time Riona looks vulnerable—without the armor of her professional clothing, her sleek hair, and her classy makeup.