The discharge process was a blur of paperwork and the smell of industrial-strength cleaner. Liam moved slowly, his right arm heavy in its white cast, his face a mottled landscape of healing bruises. Despite the pain, he refused the wheelchair the nurse insisted on, walking out of the sliding glass doors of the Manhattan hospital on his own two feet, his jaw set against the sting of the city air.
As we reached the sidewalk, the chaotic hum of New York City hitting us for the first time since the mountain, Jasmine turned to me. She looked hesitant, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag. "Sarah... do you want to come back to my hotel? Or... did you want to go back to the house?"
The mention of the house—the Vanderbilt penthouse with its cold marble and silent, suffocating rooms—made my
