He tucked blankets around me. If I had the strength, I would push him away. Fuck you, Ronan, I thought, my mind drifting toward sleep. Fuck you.
“I don’t know why,” he said. “That’s what’s killing me.”
CHAPTER THREE
Poppy
It was early when I woke up. The sky curled up on its gray edges, revealing its pink belly. Out the window, I could see the tops of the hills, green and rolling, studded with rocks. I sat up, listening for what, I wasn’t sure. Ronan in the other room. A conversation. A city or town outside the walls. A highway. But there was nothing but silence, silence like a thick blanket over this little house.
Northern Ireland.
I had no reason not to believe him, except, of course, I couldn’t believe anything he said.
Carefully, I got to my feet. The smell of my body—blood and sweat—wafted from the warm white sheets. I needed a shower. Clean clothes.
But what I really needed was to get in touch with my sister.
The thought of her, of Zilla, made me stronger. Focused. I had to get the fuck out of here and find Zilla.
I slipped off the sling, wincing as my right shoulder burned at the motion. I unwrapped the gauze around my arm until I came to a wide bandage. Wincing, I peeled off the adhesive tape enough that I could lift the corner of the bandage and reveal a jagged wound, stitched up tight with dark even stitches. Fifty of them. I pressed the tape back down but left off the gauze.
There was a bench at the foot of the wooden bed; on it was a stack of clothes. I pulled on the sweatpants and drew the drawstring tight. There were thick white socks that were not easy to negotiate but I got them on too. Then I searched the room for a phone. Not just my cell phone, which felt like a total dream, but a landline. A laptop. A desktop. A homing pigeon. Anything.
But there were only books and reading glasses and under the bed . . . a cat.
“Where did you come from?” I whispered to the gigantic black and brown cat with whiskers that touched the floor. She meowed at me like I took her spot and she hated me for it. “Well,” I told her. “You can have the bed back. I’m leaving.”
There were two doors in the bedroom. The second door led to a white-tiled, windowless bathroom with an old-fashioned clawfoot tub with a shower along one wall. My body absolutely longed to sit in a warm bath, but there was no time. I peed quickly and avoided looking at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands.
The door leading to the main room was cracked open, revealing the two chairs in front of the fireplace. The door squealed as I pushed it open enough so I could slip out. The cat followed me. The fire had died, and the room was cold and sharp.
Winter cold in June.
Ronan sat in one of the chairs in front of the empty fireplace. Sleeping. He still wore his jacket, the bloodstained undershirt. Like he’d tucked me in last night, came out here, and just collapsed.
At rest, he looked so different. It made me realize how alive he was when awake. How the air and space around him thrummed and crackled. Asleep, he was smaller. Nearly . . . sweet. I could see in the corners of his mouth and the droop of his shoulders—the boy he’d been, wild and smart.
And very alone.
His hair was down over his face and I clenched my hand against the urge to sweep it back. I had to burn away this stupid tenderness I felt for him. This lingering curiosity. I had leaned toward him—against him—because I was weak. And scared. And childish.
I needed to be the opposite.
Everything between us had been an act. There was nothing for me with him.
Quiet, I snuck around the room and kitchen, looking for a phone. No luck. Not even a landline or a computer. Had Ronan cleared the house of all the ways I could communicate or were we just that remote?
I looked at the back of his head as I stood in the kitchen. He had a phone on him for sure. In the pocket of his coat, probably. If I were braver, I’d go through those pockets.
And if I was feeling braver these days, having my back against the wall would be a great reason for that, but I wasn’t that brave.
He had a gun balanced on his knee. If I stepped over there and touched him, he’d be awake in a heartbeat. Probably would have me on the ground with the gun pressed to my head.
Yeah, we’ll skip that.
The cat, however, had jumped up on the table beside his chair, almost knocking over a pair of reading glasses. She sniffed him, one paw reaching forward to test his arm.