Or they’ve forgotten about me.

“Lift your feet so you don’t hit the grate,” Mr. Gretzky says.

I do as I’m told before I pull the bag off my head. “Thank you for helping me—Ahhh!”

Bobby rises from my bed, his hands up. “Sorry! Sorry, January, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

He’s wearing chinos and a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He looks like a TV boyfriend. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

The basement door slams. Mr. Gretzky must have left. Which means Bobby and I are alone.

He moves to one side, gesturing at the bed. “Come sit down.”

Unsure what else to do, I sit, tucking my feet underneath me. I’m super aware of my damp hair and scrubbed face, my nipples brushing against my T-shirt. I fold my arms across my chest. “Um, so why are you here?”

Bobby scrubs a hand through his short hair. “Do you feel better after your shower?”

“Yeah totally.”

“That’s… good.”

He’s not acting cool and confident anymore. He’s more like he was when he was tutoring me, nice but awkward. I try not to smile. Bobby’s not insanely beautiful like Eli, or dangerously pretty like Doc. He’s more practical. More American. The kind of guy who sends roses on Valentine’s Day and your family likes—if your family was normal.

“So, I uh…” He gestures to my side table. “Got you some stuff.”

I turn. Beside the lamp is a small bunch of pink flowers in a plastic cup and a thin gold necklace.

“I saw you’ve got that St. Christopher. I thought you might wanna put it on a chain.”

I throw my arms around Bobby’s neck. “Oh my God, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He makes a strangled sound but his arms close around me. His sweater is cashmere and I rub my face against it, inhaling his sweet, wood smoke scent. Bobby’s so strong, he’s so—

Cold expands in my core as I remember him approaching Kurt, his face steady and sure. The man holding me raised the gun that killed my bodyguard. I saw it. Saw Kurt lying on the ground, gaping red where his face used to be.

I push myself away. “I… um…”

Bobby’s jaw sets, his brown eyes fixing on me. “Give me your St. Christopher. I’ll put it on the chain.”

I open my fist and stare at the little gold circle. A part of me wants to give it to him, but a much bigger part of me wishes he hadn’t killed Kurt. As lovely as it would be to wear the medallion around my neck, I can’t have Zia Theresa’s precious St. Christopher attached to something so compromised.

“Or not,” Bobby says, his face bright red.

“I’m sorry Bobby, I just—wait, what are you doing?”

He drops to one knee in front of me. “January, I need to say something. I want you out of this basement. I want you safe and happy again.”