Delilah’s face slacks in sympathy. “Oh, darling. Your kidnapping borrowed time for him, that’s all.”
My heart sinks. “But if I can convince Taylor?—”
“No.” She stops me with a hand on my knee and a shake of her head. “No.”
The water in my eyes burns. What am I crying for? For Papa, who is not dead? For Papa, whose birth sealed his fate? Even if he’d been a benevolent man, they’d kill him. It isn’t about what they’ve done, but who they are. Leader McGovern’s children committed no crimes, but they were executed all the same. Anyone with power gets marked for slaughter.Viva la revolución, I guess.
“For what it’s worth to you, she didn’t kill the shooter,” Delilah says in a soft voice.
Shaking out of my stupor, I meet her eyes. I’m trying to find the nugget of honesty in them. “She didn’t?”
“No. She didn’t torture her, either. Ironically, it appears your intervention saved that woman’s life.”
The news is as heart lifting as it is devastating. My thin hope to have some sort of effect on my captor has been realized, but at the cost of having seen a woman so hell-bent on inflicting pain, she was no longer recognizable. But ultimately, I understand. I understand how death twists you. I understand how easy it is todo terrible things when terrible things have been done to you, and how hard it is to find the courage to keep your peace.
“Wait, why is that ironic?”
Delilah nibbles on the inside of her cheek. “Taylor found out she was not the intended target. The assassin thought Faith was you.”
I’ve never been punched in the stomach before, but I have to think this is what it feels like. A sharp, intense pain in the gut, with the lingering sensation I may be bleeding internally. “Me.”
“Yes. The shooter is from a separatist group—bigger, more organized and well-connected than any gang in the regions. The assassinations of McGovern and Thorne have made them bold. The war has created an opportunity for them to target both sides, as we target each other. So far, our goals have been aligned so they haven’t affected the rebellion much. You, however, are an outlier. They are apparently quite angry that you’ve been spared.” Delilah watches my face and rubs her thumb in the divot on the side of my knee.
Raking my fingers through my hair again, I inhale slowly to steady my breathing. It’s too much to process. I close my eyes and try to regain my focus. “It’s my fault her friend died. It’s my fault Faith is dead.”
“It does you no good to wallow in misplaced guilt. What you should be doing is going next door.”
“How do I…I don’t know what to do for Taylor.”
“Be her friend,” she says and rises from my bed. “I won’t presume to speak on her behalf, but, Lucy, she needs a friend.”
“What do I tell her?” With a disgruntled sigh, I toss my blankets to the side and shift to sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything. Listen.”
For days I’ve lacked the courage to open a door. Out of context, it’s embarrassing. I’m Luciana Piccolo—doors used toopen for me. Now, the best I can hope for is to be allowed in. I change into more presentable clothing, take a few deep breaths, and forgo any courtesy knocks on Taylor’s door as I open it and enter her room.
Taylor sits in the middle of her bed, legs crossed, staring down at an open book. Her eyes never waver from the pages, glued to it as if it were relaying the secrets of the universe. She doesn’t move as I inch toward her bed.
“Hey.”
Her head lifts to acknowledge my presence, and I barely remember to contain a gasp at her haggard appearance. A pair of tired eyes are dry and bloodshot, two indigo crescent moons beneath them. There’s still a faint smear of black eyeliner on her eyelids, her lips cracked and chewed. She looks like a train wreck. Scratch that. She looks like someone poorly dealing with an incredible, sudden loss. I know that look.
She stares in my direction. I’m not being looked at, but through. “I suppose knocking is out of the question.”
Good to know her sass is in better shape than she is. “How are you feeling?”
“How am I feeling.” Taylor snorts and shakes her head, dropping eye contact. “What do you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth.”
“No, you don’t.” I raise an eyebrow at her and continue my slow walk toward her bed. “Everyone wants to hear what will make them feel better.”
“I don’t. I’d like to hear the truth.”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Do you? Okay. The truth is, I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you look fine. The strung-out drug addict look you have going on is quite becoming.”