“What happened to pretending? What happened to this, right here, being our whole world?”
“Sorry, sometimes dreams are short-lived, aren’t they?”
“What a minute—”
“Fuck off, Dutch.”
Dutch watched her run off toward the murderous hills that would take her back up to the house, in no hurry to follow. In fact, he’d take his time and walk back up when he was damn good and ready.
He wondered if her jab about short-lived dreams related to him and Alegria or to him and her. If it were the latter, Malin likely meant that her own dreams had been short-lived, making him feel, once again, like the absolute shit-head asshole he was.
—:—
An hour passed before Malin heard Dutch come into the house. There was no question it was him, he was whistling the only damn song he ever did—Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.”
He wasn’t that good at carrying a tune, but after hearing it hundreds of times, it was recognizable.
Maybe she’d been too hard on him, but did he really think he could just ask her what she and Orlov had been working on and she’d tell him? He must really think her stupid. That or completely under his “spell.”
She was neither, and they would grow old together on this island before she told him a single thing more than she already had.
“What?” she said when she heard the knock on the door. She’d holed herself up in the smallest of the four bedrooms she’d come across after finding the clothing that Onyx, or whoever, had purchased for her in the master on the third floor. She had no intention of sleeping in there, though, with or without Dutch. Not only was this room the smallest, it was also the farthest away.
“There are a couple of things I want to get straight.”
“This oughta be good.” Malin twirled the seagrass angel ornament in her hand and tried her hardest not to look at him because, if she did, she’d lose all resolve.
Dutch shook his head. “That’s one. The attitude. I’m trying to help you, so you can drop that shit.”
“What else?”
“Don’t tell me to fuck off. I don’t talk to you that way.”
“I didn’t kidnap you.”
Dutch stalked over to the bed and, before she realized what he was doing, grabbed her by the nape.
“I didn’t kidnap you. I saved your life, Malin. You may think Orlov wouldn’t have killed you right then, but he would’ve eventually, just as soon as he’d gotten everything out of you that he wanted.”
“How do you know, Dutch? Is that your plan too?”
He wrenched his hand away from her as though her flesh had burned him, looked into her eyes, shook his head, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
She may have taken things too far with her last comment, but didn’t he have any idea how mad she was at him? Didn’t he know that he’d essentially ripped her heart out of her chest and left it in his kitchen that night? How could he think she wouldn’t lash out at him, especially when he goaded her?
She closed her eyes and rested her back against the headboard of the bed, took a couple of deep breaths, got up, went down one flight of stairs, and found Dutch in the kitchen, pouring a shot of Bourbon that didn’t look like his first.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Dutch tossed back the shot and poured another. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I went too far. You know I don’t really think you’d ever hurt me, Dutch. Not physically anyway.”
“That’s it.” He slammed the glass down on the counter and walked out the back door.
“Where are you going?” she yelled, running after him when she saw the same boat they’d come over on approaching the dock.
Dutch didn’t acknowledge that he heard her, nor did he hesitate to jump on the boat as soon as it was close enough for him to do so.