Daniel slammed on the brakes in front of my former home, leaving lines of rubber on the road. Every light in the house was on, creating immense pools of darkness across the manicured lawn. The front door swung wide open—welcoming or warning, I wasn't sure.
"Wait for Detective Carter," Daniel told me, but I was already unhooking my seatbelt.
"My father is in there with a knife to his throat. I'm not waiting for anything."
"Brooklyn." He grabbed my arm, his grip firm but gentle. "This is what they want. For us to go in and make a mess of things. To make mistakes."
"Then we don't make mistakes." I pulled out my phone, opening the camera. "We're going in. Together."
He locked his jaw, war in conflict on his face. Finally, he nodded. "Together. But the second thing goes bad, you run. Promise me."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Brooklyn."
"I'm not going without you," I repeated, more firmly. "We're past that. We are in this together, or we are not at all."
