When I got to the gym doorway, I heard a small thump, thump as she hit the punching bag. Hunched over, her arms up next to her face, she looked fierce. But when her hand hit the bag, that ferocity left immediately. The bag didn’t move an inch.

“Are you using your whole body?” I asked.

“Yes, and my whole body is laughing at me.” Her hands fell to her sides as her shoulders slumped. “I survived a bomb and a potential kidnapping, but my body is weak, and I hate it. If my body’s going to be weak, fine, but I have to be sharp up here.” She lifted a taped hand to her head. “I broke down, Carter. I can’t do that again.”

“And you think hitting the bag will help you with that?”

“No, but sitting around doing a Sudoku puzzle will just put me back to sleep. I figure it’s the two birds with one stone thing.” She nodded to the bag again. “Thought it would help both my body and mind.”

“Emma,” I said as I stepped inside and shut the door. “You need to rest.”

She shot me a look. “You’re not resting.”

Because I couldn’t. Because there was no time. “Emma.”

“Stop.” She rolled her eyes and resumed the stance to punch again. Arms up. Feet apart. Shoulders back. “I’m useless right now, so let me do this. It makes me feel helpful, at least.”

“Emma, you have to rest. That will make your mind strong again.”

“No.” She closed her eyes and seemed in pain as she lifted her hands to press against her temples. “You don’t understand. I—fuck it. They took her, and I can’t—” Her face contorted. She looked in agony. “They took my sister because of me, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.” Rearing back, she punched the bag in a savage motion. “My sister—because of this.” Her hand curled up and shot toward her face, like she was going to punch herself.

I grabbed for her, but she stopped just short of hitting herself. She looked at her hand, a hair’s width away from her nose, and a sickening laugh left her. Tears rolled down her face as she bent over, still laughing, still crying.

“Emma.”

She looked up. “I’m miserable, Carter. They’re torturing her because of me.”

“No.”

“Yes. Me!”

“No.” I grabbed her and hauled her close. “They’re torturing her because of me, because I love you, because I won’t let you go. That’s why.” My pulse raced. I loved her, and I was almost crazy because of it. She couldn’t blame herself. “Me, Emma. It’s my fault. Not yours. If you want to punish someone, punish me. I should’ve let you go a year ago—”

Her eyes went wild, and she surged up on her toes, moving against me. “No.”

“—but I couldn’t.” I gentled my tone. I needed to get control of myself. “I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go.”

“No, Carter.” A whimper slipped out as she shook her head. “No. You can’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I love you. This was my fault—”

“Stop it!” I shouted.

She kept hurting herself. I saw the pain that flashed in her eyes as she cast blame on her actions, on her being herself.

“She’s your blood family, and you can be curious about her,” I said, trying to be calm. “You can want to get to know her. That’s normal. That’s the right thing, a person should be able to do that. But you can’t, because of me. All of this is because of me. My god, you’re allowed to want to have a family. That’s what she is. That’s what I did. That’s the whole reason we’re in this mess, because I couldn’t be alone. AJ was dead. You were safer away from me than with me. So I let you go, but I went to the mafia. Because of that choice, your sister was taken.”

“Carter,” she whispered.

“Stop, Emma.” She was breaking down, and I couldn’t stop it, any of it. Every day she broke a little bit more—every time I came home without her sister. She wasn’t eating. She wasn’t healing. This was because of me. “This is my fault. Never yours.”

“Carter.”

She wanted to fight. Fine. I’d teach her how to fight. I gestured to the punching bag. “Show me your stance.”

“What?”

“Show me. If that was me, how would you stand against me?”

“I…” Her eyebrows furrowed, and she tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

I moved around the bag to stand beside it and gestured for Emma to square against me. “I’m a Bartel. I’m coming at you. How would you fight me?”

She raised her little hands, already formed into fists.

“No,” I said.

“What?” She lowered her hands.

“Raise them up again.”

She did, and I swept an arm around her, tucking her against my side. I walked in a small circle, carrying her. She couldn’t kick me. Her arms were trapped against my body. Her only weapon was her teeth. She could bite me, but that wouldn’t kill me. After setting her down, I asked, “Do you know what you did wrong?”

“Besides doing what you told me to do?” she retorted. The tears and hysterics had ceased. The fighting spirit had come back to her, putting color in her cheeks again. She blew a short puff of air, cooling herself. Her hands went to her hips, and she struck a defiant pose. Her chin lifted. “Okay. Show me what I did wrong.”