Marco Vitale was waiting for her in the corridor outside her bedroom when Elena finally got home, and one look at his face told her he already knew more than she wanted him to.
"You're bleeding," he said, before hello, before anything else, crossing the distance between them in three steps and reaching for her arm before he caught himself and stopped, hand hovering an inch from her sleeve like he'd forgotten, for a second, that he wasn't allowed to touch her like that anymore.
"It's not mine." She looked down at the thin dark smear on her cuff — Vincent's wine glass, probably, or someone else's, from a night that had left too much of itself on too many people to sort out whose blood belonged to whom. "I'm fine, Marco."
"I heard there was shooting."
"You heard right."
"And nobody calle
