"I'm not walking," he said. "I'm staying right here. But I'm not going to help you destroy yourself anymore, Angie. Not tonight. Not ever again."
Will Trent stood outside the Ponce de Leon Avenue apartment, the familiar smell of damp concrete and cheap air freshener hitting him like a poorly landed punch. He didn't need to knock. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of low, golden light spilling into the hallway.
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.
Angie’s hand dropped. For a second, the mask slipped—not the tough-girl mask, but the one underneath. The one that was just a scared, broken kid from the Home who never learned how to be loved without being hurt first.