We've got a bus to catch.
He took my arm as we crossed the street. Good thing, too, because I stepped out onto the asphalt without looking, and only his quick movement saved me from being slammed into at the knees like the man whose death we were investigating.
But I know the truth. He never would have taken my arm like that if anyone else was around. We are nothing, nothing—and I could have died, if Nick or Catherine or Warrick were there, because we are nothing. It makes me so sad I want to vomit.
I did not pick up my phone when he called tonight. I waited until he left a cryptic message—"Sara, it's me. Call me when you get a chance"—and then picked up the phone and dialed. Another number. Not his.
"Hank? It's Sara…"
I can't keep waiting for nothing.