“Noted,” Cam says slowly. He doesn’t push, but the question hangs there, unspoken.Is there something you’re not telling us?
There is. There are alotof somethings. Asher. The opera box. Blood on satin. The Plan B pill, dissolving on my tongue. But none of those feel like secrets that belong in this tiny, breathless room with kids sleeping ten feet away and Evelyn shackled in the basement.
“Anything else?” I ask, a little too bright, trying to placate them.
Cam studies me, tugging his hands through his hair. “For tonight?” he says. “No. Hydrate. Eat. Lie down. If the pain spikes, you wake me up. You don’t get to tough it out while I’m busy sorting files.”
“I don’t wake people up,” I mutter. “I handle my own nightmares.”
Sterling pushes off the wall, stepping closer—close enough that the heat from his body cuts the chill in the room. “You don’t handle them alone anymore.” Something in my chest stutters. I hate that it feels good. I hate that I want to believe him.
Cam gathers his tools and backs toward the door. “If she tries to sneak back downstairs,” he says to Sterling, “you tackle her. Gently.”
I flip off Cam. “I heard that.”
“Good,” he replies, and disappears into the hall.
For a moment, it’s just Sterling and me. I’m half-dressed, bruised, and suddenly aware of how small this room is. He doesn’t crowd me, just stands there with his hands loose at his sides, watching my face. “You’re going to hover, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Oh, absolutely,” he says, not the least bit apologetic. “You can sleep, I’ll watch the door.”
I pull my shirt back into place. “A ghost as a nightlight. Cute.”
“I’m not letting you fall over because you decided pain is optional.”
“Pain lets you know you’re alive.”
“And tonight, it’s telling us not to be idiots.”
I ease onto the mattress, every muscle screaming at me—the thin blanket smells like dust. Pulling it up anyway, my eyelids feel heavy. Sterling kills the lamp, leaving only the slice of light from the hallway, the glow around his silhouette making him angel-like.Angel of death is more like it. Sterling takes up position by the door, one shoulder to the wall, gun in hand like it’s an extension of his arm.
“Sterling?” I whisper, sleepiness starting to set in.
“Yeah, Thorn?”
“I’m not fragile. Don’t start treating me like glass,” I murmur, voice quiet and low.
“I know you’re not. You’ve been breaking and rebuilding yourself for years.” There’s a pause. I can hear the kids shifting in the other room—a soft cough, a sigh. “I’m just making sure,” he adds, voice low, “that this time, you don’t have to do it alone.” I want to argue, but unconsciousness pulls me under before I can find the words.
The sound of tapping pulls me from the deep sleep. For a second, I think it’s Evelyn on the pipes again. Trying to talk to a system that isn’t listening anymore. The room comes into focus—peeling wallpaper, thin mattress, the slice of grey light at the edge of the curtain. The ache in my belly is pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The tapping is coming from my phone on the crate by the bed, vibrating against the plastic. I don’t remember putting it there. I remember Sterling’s silhouette in the doorway and then nothing. The screen is dark—no new messages. The vibration was a trick of nerves and nightmares. “Great,” I mutter. “Now my anxiety gets notifications.”
The house is quieter than it should be. The generator hums is a low, constant thrum. My body feels like it’s been filled with wet sand; every movement is an effort. I push myself upright slowly, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
The door is cracked, and I can see the edge of Sterling’s shoulder through it—a broad, solid line of black against the lighter hall. He’s stillon guard. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and hiss when the stretch tugs at the bruises. The pain has settled into a deep ache. More like a constant reminder that I’m not indestructible.
The bathroom is small with cracked tile. A mirror showing me my reflection: dark circles under my eyes, hair a tangle of knots. My skin looks sallow under the sickly yellow bulbs. I splash water on my face. The cold shock pulls me out of my head. One thing at a time: Reyes, Evelyn, the kids, the program’s multiple locations. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles blanch. “Not today,” I tell my reflection.
Stepping into the hall, Sterling straightens from the wall, his eyes do a full sweep. He’s assessing how much damage is still left after last night. “Morning,” he grumbles, his voice rough.
“Is it?” I question. Sterling tilts his head toward the grimy window at the end of the hall. A thin slice of grey daylight leaks in. “How are the kids?”
“They’re still asleep,” he informs me. “Lila’s with them. Cam’s mainlining coffee and sorting through everything.”
“And Evelyn?” I ask.
A muscle in Sterling’s jaw ticks. “Tapped for a while. Quiet now.”
The image of her downstairs, tapping dots and dashes on a pipe, makes my skin crawl. “Let her talk to herself for a bit.” I expect Sterling to block the doorway when I head for the main room, to wrap me in metaphorical bubble wrap. He doesn’t; he just falls into step beside me.