But it isn’t Kip who walks through the door. “Clara!”
She runs to me, crying, and I cling to her, ignoring the pain of it, sobbing for everything—for our broken family, for Kip. For every goddamn dollar I’d picked up off the stage. We hold each other for hours, two sisters, safe together, adrift in a sea of cold men and colder women.
Clara will always be my sister.
I don’t care if we have different fathers. I don’t care about the color of her eyes or the alleles that would sway a DNA test. She’s my sister because I kissed her fat cheeks as a baby. She would blink up at me with those blue eyes, and I think she knew who I was to her then. I was the one holding her. I was the one changing her diaper when our mother was gone.
I blame her for that—but I also know how it feels to need love.
Clara is more than my sister. I took care of her after our mother left. I never wanted her to be alone or afraid. I never wanted her to have to take care of me.
That changes today. Once I cry and hug her until my side aches, she turns the tables. “Get back in bed. You’ll tear your stitches like that.”
I give her my best stern look. “I’m fine.”
The effect is possibly ruined by the gasp that escapes me. An arc of pain is like fire through my body.
“Bed,” she repeats, her voice hard but her hands soft as she guides me under the covers.
I close my eyes as I wait for the pain and nausea to pass. When I open them again Clara is holding a glass of water and two white pills in her palm. “No,” I say. “No more of that.”
“The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what he said. They mess with my head. I haven’t been sure if I’m awake or asleep. I wasn’t even sure if I was dead or alive.”
Clara’s eyes fill with tears. Her hand closes around the pills as her lip trembles. “Oh, Honor.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately contrite. I’m still not taking the pills though.
“Don’t apologize,” she says, sniffing. “I’m the one who left you there. I can’t believe I left you. How can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you left.” The image of Clara tied to that bed, being beaten by a belt, is one that will never leave my head. I feel sick with it.
With a sigh, she drops the pills onto the table. They roll until one falls off the edge. The other one comes to a stop. “At least have a sip of water. You need liquids. And rest.”
“I’m fine now that you’re here.” Not exactly fine, not with a million miles between me and Kip. I’m staying in his house, but there’s more distance between us now than ever. “Speaking of which, how did you know it was safe to come back?”
“I never left. Not really. You know our neighbor on the right side?”
“The one with the mullet?”
“No, the other side. The one cooking meth on that hot plate. Anyway he came and warned me about some guys poking around. It was sweet actually.”
Wait. Her expression is way too appreciative. “Please tell me you don’t have a crush on Meth Guy.”
She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t sure they were there for us. There are a lot of shady people in that place, you know. But I figured it would be safer to leave. I took the statue out of the window so if you came back before me you’d know it wasn’t safe.”
“And then you left town.” That was the plan anyway, but I’m starting to have suspicions. Especially with that faintly guilty expression on her usually open face.
“Not exactly.” She makes an exasperated sound. “I didn’t want to leave without you, okay? Is that a crime?”
“So where did you go?” Suddenly the ceiling becomes the most interesting thing in the world to her. “Clara?”
She still won’t meet my eyes. “I went looking for you, that’s all.”
Oh no. My eyes narrow. “Where would you possibly look for me?”
“I went to the Grand, okay?” The words are ripped from her. “I went there, and I know you’re going to freak out but don’t. It was fine.”