The ride back to the penthouse was silent, but the air in the car felt charged. Gerhard sat close to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He kept checking the bandage on her forehead.
When they arrived, Marta gasped. "Mein Gott!"
"Ice," Gerhard ordered. "And tea."
He led Dawn to the sofa in the living room. He sat her down and placed a pillow behind her head.
Outside, the sky had darkened again. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Dawn felt the painkillers the doctor had given her starting to kick in. Her body felt heavy and floaty.
Gerhard sat on the coffee table in front of her. He pointed to the iron box on the floor.
"Open it," he said. "I want to see what was worth six stitches."
Dawn reached down. Her fingers fumbled with the latch. It clicked open.
Inside, there was a stack of old polaroids. A few letters tied with ribbon. And a paintbrush. The handle was broken, taped together with masking tape. The bristles were worn down.
"My father's," Dawn said softly. "He was a painter. He wasn't famous. He painted street scenes in the Village."
Gerhard reached out and picked up the brush. He turned it over in his long fingers.
"The technique..." Gerhard said, his voice surprisingly soft. "He understood light."
Dawn looked up, surprised. "How did you know...?"
Gerhard froze for a microsecond. His eyes flickered. "I did a background check on you, Dawn. Standard procedure. The report mentioned your parents' occupations."
"Oh." Of course. It made sense.
"He was talented," Gerhard said, his gaze fixed on the worn bristles. He placed the brush back in the box with a reverence that surprised her. "His work had... soul."
"You've seen it?"
"I collect art," Gerhard said dismissively. "I've seen a lot of things."
Marta arrived with the tea and an ice pack. Gerhard took the ice and held it gently against Dawn's forehead.
"Go to sleep," he said. "I'll stay here."
Dawn drank the tea. Her eyelids grew heavy. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
She fell asleep to the sound of rain hitting the glass.
Sometime in the night, the world exploded.
A crack of thunder shook the building.
Dawn woke up gasping. The darkness of the room pressed in on her. She wasn't in the penthouse. She was in the subway tunnel. The lights were out. The air was hot. Or maybe she was in the car, the screech of tires, the glass shattering.
She couldn't breathe. Her throat closed up.
She curled into a ball, clutching the sheets. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The silence was choking her.
One, two, three... She couldn't count. Her fingers were paralyzed.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Light flooded the room. Not the harsh overhead light, but the warm glow of a bedside lamp being switched on.
"Dawn!"
Gerhard was there. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. He moved to the edge of the bed.
He saw her gasping, her face blue in the dim light.
"Look at me," he commanded. He grabbed her shoulders. "Dawn, look at me."
She stared at him, her eyes wide with terror.
"You are at 740 Park Avenue," he said, his voice low and steady, an anchor in the storm. "You are safe. The door is locked. I am here."
He sat on the edge of the mattress, a solid, grounding weight. He didn't pull her into his arms. Instead, he took her clenched fist and slowly, deliberately, began to uncurl her fingers, one by one.
"Breathe with me," he said, pressing his thumb into the center of her palm. "In. Out."
Dawn tried to match his breathing. The steady pressure in her hand was a focal point.
Slowly, the subway tunnel faded. The car crash faded. The smell of rain and cedar filled her nose.
She let out a sob. Then another. The dam broke. She cried, her shoulders shaking, gripping his hand until her knuckles turned white.
Gerhard didn't pull away. He held her hand tighter. With his other hand, he reached out and stroked her hair, his touch careful to avoid the bandage.
"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."
He didn't leave. He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, a silent guard, until her ragged breaths evened out into the rhythm of sleep.
