Debbie's tear-stained face crumpled, and she sank to her knees on the floor. "I didn't know," she gasped. "Please, I didn't even know what Greenpoint was. I was scared-I didn't know-"
"What else did you tell them?" he demanded tersely through clenched teeth.
"Nothing! I swear it, Preacher, nothing! I don't know anything!"
Jaw locked and twitching, muscles coiled and ready to spring, Preacher lost the battle he was waging with his temper and sent his fist hurtling into the wall, smashing through the plaster. Twice more he punched the wall, the action doing nothing to soothe the waves of aggression rolling through him.
Worse, Debbie was still crying, and Eva had progressed to wailing. And Preacher needed to get the fuck out of there.
He moved quickly to the door, snatching his wallet and keys from the table as he passed.
"Preacher-wait!"
Whirling around, Preacher pinned Debbie with the full weight of his fury. "I have to go," he bit out. His chest heaved with angry breaths. "I have to fix what you did."
Shaking, Debbie got to her feet. Clutching a still-crying Eva to her chest, she took a tentative step forward. "Please," she whispered brokenly. "Please don't let them send me back home. I can't go-"
"Stop!" he shouted, "just stop! I can't-fuck, I can't deal with you right now!"
Turning away, he shoved into his boots, wrenched open the door, then slammed it shut behind him.
Debbie's sobs followed him down two flights of stairs before fading away.
• • •
It took Debbie over half an hour to settle Eva down, and then nearly another hour to calm herself to the point where she could think clearly-if a panicked stream of consciousness could be considered thinking clearly.
She moved around the apartment feeling jittery and itchy, alternating between wringing her hands and scrubbing mindlessly at her cheeks and arms. Occasionally she'd sit, only to end up fidgeting, growing frustrated and jumping up again.
"Oh God," she whispered as she wandered. Two men had been killed, and all because of her. Preacher was right; she should have gone to him first. No, she should have told him the truth from the beginning. If only she wouldn't have lied, maybe this could have all been avoided.
Her heart began to pound, and her tears spilled over. What good was wondering what might have been when she'd already ruined everything?
Finding herself in the bedroom, Debbie glanced around blindly. What would Preacher do when he returned? She'd never seen him so angry-all of his anger directed at her. Would he throw her out? Force her to leave?
Hot tears slid down her cheeks as she stared at their bed, unable to conceive of never sleeping beside him again.
Could he forgive her for this? And if he did, would he ever look at her the same way again-as if the mere sight of her made his day better?
A sob escaped her. Had she really ruined everything? Hopelessness and helplessness engulfed her, and she sank to her knees on the floor. Hugging her chest, she rocked herself while she cried.
Gazing miserably across the room, she noticed her canvas backpack hanging on the doorknob. Her scrambled thoughts paused-she could disappear for a little while. She wouldn't leave for long, just until she turned eighteen and the FBI could no longer use her against Preacher. And maybe some time apart would give Preacher the time he needed to calm down … and hopefully forgive her.
Scrambling to her feet, she retreated quickly into the hallway and practically ran to the living room. Peering inside Eva's crib, Debbie's heart painfully squeezed. Tentatively she reached out and ran her shaking fingertips down Eva's cheek. Tears blurred her vision.
She couldn't leave her daughter. She just couldn't.
"I love you so much, baby girl," she cried softly.
But maybe she should leave …
Just for a little while.
Just long enough to make everything right again.
• • •
Preacher elbowed his way past the many men crowded outside the office, then slammed the door shut in their faces. Right now, his head was a mess of problems without solutions, and he didn't have the patience to deal with everyone at once.
He took half a second to eyeball the desk he'd sworn he'd never sit behind before kicking the chair out from under it and collapsing into it. Uncapping the bottle in his hand, he guzzled at least two inches worth of gin before looking up and acknowledging the others in the room.
Rocky stood in a corner, arms crossed over his chest, head lowered, black eyes flashing beneath a heavy brow. Joe and Frank sat at opposite ends of the meeting table. While Joe appeared distraught, tapping his fingers anxiously over the oak slab, Frank was as stiff and as unreadable as ever.
"Two of my men are dead," Rocky spat angrily. Everything about the man was threatening-the menacing edge in his tone, his wide stance, and the clenched fists at his sides.