2011: It's been ten years since the sky literally came crashing down around Yael Malkah and upended her world. Now she's returned to New York to visit her ailing grandmother. With no other family, it's up to her to take care of the family business...
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The voice on the other end of the phone faded as Haustin walked into the loud, overcrowded bar. Spice. Even the name of the place annoyed him. Some new hipster hangout, as if New York needed any more.
"Where are you?"
He ignored the shrill question. "Just let me come by to see the kids."
"Are you at a bar?" his soon to be ex-wife, Lindsey, demanded. Haustin groaned. She didn't understand as usual. After today, after the little girl, he needed to see a happy, living child. His.
"Can I come over to see my kids?" he repeated through gritted teeth.
"No, and you know why. If you're at a bar I can only imagine the state you're in. I don't trust them with you when you're drinking, or worse. Clean yourself up, Haus. Then, maybe, we'll talk about it."
He stared at the phone after she disconnected. Clean himself up? She had no idea what the hell she was talking about. He was fine. A woman passed by, too close, nearly choking him with the cloud of perfume following her. Well, he would be fine once he got out of here.
"I'm leaving," he said, turning towards the door.
Abel grabbed his arm. "Nope. No way. You need to let loose after the shift we had."
His friend was wrong. He needed to be at home, alone, not socializing, and pretending everything was okay. The senselessness of death clung to him. Losing those they were supposed to save was defeating, especially when one was a little girl with blond curls. Anger burned in his gut, begging to be numbed with cheap whiskey. Shrugging, he figured he might as well stay or else he'd never hear the end of it. A couple of drinks, mixed with a handful of pills he swiped off the nurse he hooked up with last week, sounded perfect. He intended to stop the self-medicating someday, but right now, it helped keep him numb and numb was good.
A sharp-dressed man in a suit bumped into him, and Haustin clenched his jaw to lock down the angry words itching to be let loose. He hated places like this. The air inside was cloying, thick with the irresistible allure of alcohol, and the walls seemed to be closing in on him, pressing the bodies of the other patrons into his space.
Another asshole, younger this time and laughing with his buddies, lurched into him. "Watch it," he growled.
"Sorry, dude," the kid tossed over his shoulder, barely pausing his conversation.
"Relax, Haustin." He cut a narrowed glance at Abel. The urge to wipe the smirk off Abel's face flared, hot and bright, but he refrained. Didn't want to ruin the guys' fun like last time.
Then, he saw her, sitting with Alex, and their gazes locked. He grabbed a nearby table for support, knocking glasses askew, and went freefalling into the past.
The single constant in his life the past few years, other than the pain, had been the girl he saved on 9/11. He never forgot her face, those piercing brown eyes, the way she trembled in his arms, the grief and fear they had shared. Amid all the ghosts he retained from that day, she was his talisman—proof he'd been able to do something right even as everything else went wrong.
