Bree side eyes him. "When the police show up to the office on Monday because she's missing, at least I can tell them the culprit is probably some microbrewery-owning hipster with a music complex."

I have an emergency whistle. And pepper spray. I've also been told my voice can wake the dead. She doesn't need to worry about me. I'm good at taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time.

“So I'm supposed to go home in your crime scene cardigan? What if the police take me in for questioning when you go missing? How will I explain this?”

“You have video evidence.”

“What if it’s not admissible in court?”

“Bree,” I cry. “It’s an emergency.”

“Fine, but you owe me.”

“My life.”

I pay fifty cents for us to switch shirts in the bathroom of a Dunkin Donuts across the street. When we emerge—casually, like nothing happened—Ana is standing there with her husband and twenty-year-old daughter, Willa, who’s home from college for winter break.

“Do I want to know?” Ana asks us.

“No,” we say at the same time.

* * *

Asher is leaning back against a glass window, blocking a gingerbread house display with his rather sour expression. A little girl walks by—her mitten clad hand tucked into her mother’s— and she sneers at him for obstructing her view of the sugar-sweet wonderland. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy glaring twelve stories up into an office building while white-knuckling the neck of a bottle of wine. I’m pretending he’s annoyed with someone up there and not with me for being six minutes late.

“Sorry.” I’m out of breath when I get to him. For someone who runs across the city—definitely not recreationally—on the regular, I should be in better shape. It’s probably the donuts. And the fact that I consider taking the stairs a high intensity workout.

Asher takes one look at me and glares back up at the sky. This time he pinches the bridge of his nose. I want to ask him if it’s because of my bloody lip or the fact that my boobs are trying to escape the hell I’ve encaged them in.

“Were you assaulted?”

“Sort of.”

“By a person?”

“Well... kinda.”

“Olivia.” He loses his patience so quickly. “When I said I wanted an excuse not to come, I didn’t want that excuse to involve a police report. Do you know how long they take? We’ll be there all night.”

I frown. A little empathy wouldn’t kill him. I know he’s capable of it. Everyone else may think his heart is twenty sizes too small, but I’ve witnessed a brief moment with his niece. He can feel things.