Sterling stood outside the guest wing, his back against the wall, staring at nothing. His radio was silent for once, but the noise inside his head was deafening. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—the way Anya's eyes had widened right before she tumbled down those stairs.
He had pushed her.
Not out of malice. Not to hurt her. He had pushed her because she was getting too close to the blast zone of his heart, and he had panicked like a rookie on his first day. And because of his cowardice, she was now limping through the halls of a house she was supposed to be safe in.
He heard the faint click-clack of a cane—or maybe just a hesitant footstep.
Sterling straightened up instantly, his hand flying to his holster out of habit, but he relaxed the second she turned the corner.
Anya.
She was wearing a soft, oversized sweater that made her look even smaller than she was, and her left ankle was heavily bandaged. She was leaning against the wall for support, her face pale.
