In Too Deep

The first time Nova saw him, she screamed.

She didn’t know who he was, why her door was unlocked, or what the hell happened to him.

But a man she’d never seen before was sprawled across her couch, in the dark, wet hair hiding his face, and bleeding.

Panic clawed in her chest at the blood—so much blood—soaking through the right side of his white button-up shirt.

It took her a second to process what she was seeing, to understand the crimson puddle on her floor. With a gasp, Nova moved closer, scanning the stranger from head to toe.

His dark jeans camouflaged some blood, but his white short-sleeved shirt was steadily turning red. Tattoos covered his arms all the way up to his neck. Even his knuckles were inked.

He looked like he belonged on a wanted poster.

His features were hard. His nose was straight and dramatic, like a knife. His lips were full and red, and his jaw was shadowed with dark stubble.

His chest rose and fell unevenly.

He was alive—barely.

But he was too pale, even in the darkness.

Her hand trembled as she pressed the back of her palm to his forehead. He was burning up. Her stomach dropped. She lifted his shirt and let out a shaky breath when she saw the gunshot wound.

No one would believe she didn’t know him, not when she didn’t even know how he’d gotten in.

And if the police started digging, they’d look into her life. They’d look into her family.

Or worse, into Grant.

She knew, deep down, that Grant had secrets. Dangerous secrets. The police poking around was the last thing she needed. She was already struggling to help with Grant’s “gambling debts,” making her mortgage payments, and her brother—

No. No police.

Nova searched the man’s pockets and found his phone. It didn’t have a password, and it unlocked immediately.

She was going to call someone from his contacts—but scrolling through his recent calls sent chills down her spine.

No Kevin.

No Ben.

Just The Owl, Razor, Bullet, Shadow, Skullcrusher. Not exactly the kind of people Nova wanted in her living room.

Even if he was dying, she wasn’t calling any of them. It was clear who the stranger bleeding on her couch was.

He was a criminal.

Maybe he was a gangster, maybe Mafia. There were only so many reasons for a gunshot wound in Portland. Nova figured he was probably on the run, and her house happened to be the closest place to hide.

A hospital was out of the question; they might call the police.

But she couldn’t watch him die. Whether he was a good guy or a bad guy, he wasn’t going to die in her living room. Nova rushed to get her first aid kit and anything else that would help.

Even though she’d dropped out, six months of med school finally paid off. She managed to get the bullet out, stop the bleeding, and stitch him up. She was grateful he’d been unconscious while she worked.

After cleaning up as much of the blood as she could, Nova watched over him. Slowly but surely, his breathing grew steady and his temperature came down a bit. She found herself wishing he’d open his eyes, just so she could see what color they were—if they were as beautiful as the rest of him.

She shook herself and backed away.

She slipped into her room. After she locked the door, she took a shower, hot and quick. But it took forever to scrub away the blood from under her nails and her clothes.

Every inch of her felt heavy. She sat on the edge of her bed, unsure how to face the stranger on her couch.

None of this had been on her radar just a few months ago. None of this chaos was a possibility.

But she had to keep her promises—like the one she and her brother had made to their parents to always look out for each other. Now that they were gone, he was all she had left.

She couldn’t lose her brother. She wouldn’t survive it. Her only choice was to forge ahead and keep to the plan, no matter how stupid or dangerous it got.

She flopped back on her bed and fought to breathe evenly.

Options blurred together in a haze. She didn’t remember falling asleep.

Nova woke up hours later in a panicked confusion. A search of her place confirmed the stranger was gone and that nothing was missing or stolen.

But there was a telling red-brown smudge on her floor and a smear of blood on her couch. If not for that, she might have convinced herself it all had been a terrible dream.

But he had been there.

It haunted her for days. She couldn’t get him out of her mind, and it felt wrong to try and forget him somehow. Things were in motion.

But less than a week and a half later, he showed up again, passed out and bleeding on her couch.

And just like that, it became a thing.

For two months, she’d patched up stab wounds, scratches, and bullet holes. For two months, the worry that someone might find him at her place slowly festered inside her.

Nova never understood how he could slip in and out of her house without her noticing. Somehow she never heard the door. Not once.

Maybe she let it happen.

Maybe she wanted it to.

She called him Ghost. She didn’t know his real name.

If anyone found out she was healing a criminal, she’d probably end up in jail. She knew that. But she kept doing it anyway.

Her parents had always taught her to help people, no matter what. Turning Ghost in would have disappointed them. At least, that was what she told herself. And it got harder and harder to deny the growing thrill mixed with dread that shot through her every time he appeared.

It was a strange kind of routine, being a criminal’s doctor. It gave her life a weird sense of purpose. She felt needed, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. Even as it slowly crippled her social life and slowly warped her sense of normal.

Her waitress job was falling apart, but this—this unpaid, secret job—felt more important. At least, when she wasn’t panicking that he might die on her couch.

This time, she was handling it better. Tonight, Ghost had been stabbed in the stomach. It wasn’t fatal, but he was bleeding.

Under his right eye, a black eye was blooming. His cheeks were scratched up, and a bruise was spreading along his jaw.

She wondered what kind of job left a person like this. Whether Ghost didn’t know there were safer ways to make a living or he just loved the danger that kept bringing him bleeding into her house, she didn’t know. But it was getting harder for her to deny her sadness at seeing how little he cared about his own life.

She stared at him for a long time before she finally reached out, her hands shaking as she unbuttoned his shirt. It never got easier. Her hands always trembled. Her heart always raced.

The heat of his skin, his cologne lingering in the air, all of it muddled her thoughts.

She peeled open his shirt. Old scars crisscrossed his skin. She traced them with her fingers, then focused on two fresh cuts across his chest.

It looked like someone had tried to kill him.

Nova grabbed a clean towel and ran it under cold water. She knelt in front of him, wiping at the smaller cuts. Then she pressed the towel to the worst wound, using both hands to stop the bleeding. She grabbed the bottle of alcohol from the coffee table and poured it over his chest.

If he’d been awake, he would have screamed. She was sure of it. She smeared antibiotic ointment on the cuts, let it dry, then pinched the wound closed and stitched it up.

When she finished, she bandaged everything and took her kit back to the bathroom. She scrubbed every spot of blood until it was gone.

It took her almost two hours, but she got it all out.

She sat back down on the couch, facing Ghost. He hadn’t shaved in days, and the rough look kind of suited him.

He was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made her suspicious. Nova was sure there had to be something dark hiding underneath all that perfection.

Then he shifted on the couch and groaned, his head rolling to the side.

Nova froze, her heart thudding in her chest.

She twisted the hem of her shirt, thinking about waking him up.

She knew it was stupid and dangerous. But her curiosity was slowly winning over her self-preservation. She needed answers, and Ghost was never in any shape to give them.

She had tried to find them too. She checked his pockets—no wallet. Not that she really expected him to carry one, considering what he did for a living.

But she managed to get her hands on his phone again. She glanced at his sleeping face, then back at the screen. Just like before, it was unlocked.

She was shocked by the carelessness. Anyone could just pick up his phone and see everything.

Or maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe he thought there was nothing on there worth hiding.

Nova didn’t buy it.

But the best way to really know someone was their pictures. Photos always told the truth, even when people didn’t.

She tapped on Photos, her heart racing. But her excitement fizzled out.

Nothing. His camera roll was completely empty. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She wasn’t ready to give up. She kept searching but came up empty again.

No messages. Not a single one. That made her even more frustrated. She gripped the phone tighter, ready to shove it back in his pocket—then her finger brushed over the Reminders app.

Nova forced herself to breathe, but she couldn’t shake the fear as she slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Snooping didn’t feel fun anymore. It felt dangerous, like she was opening a door she’d never be able to close.