She would never be able to forget the noises that had come from the house. The sounds of Dorran beating her skull in. Clare knew he’d had reasons to do it that way. Knives were ineffective. They had no guns. Crushing her skull—thoroughly destroying it—was the only way he could be sure she was dead.
Murderer.
It took hours for weariness to win the battle over Clare’s mind. When she finally fell asleep, she didn’t even have the respite she had been longing for. Her dreams were full of images of Marnie, her bones poking out of her broken head and her body swollen as she shuffled along the hallway towards Clare.
She woke in a cold sweat. It was still early. Light filtered through the condensation on the glass of the small window over the kitchenette. Clare was cold. The other half of the bed was empty.
Clare sat up gingerly. She pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She was alone in the caravan. Dorran had left.
She imagined him slipping out of bed in the dead of night, going to the car, and driving out of the caravan park. He could be hours away by that point, either returning to Winterbourne or seeking out a new shelter. She deserved it. She’d been a liability for a while.
The idea hovered in her mind then evaporated. She knew Dorran better than that. He had never looked for an easy way out when things became difficult. He hadn’t abandoned her in Winterbourne when they had both thought she was going insane, and he wouldn’t abandon her in a caravan in the middle of nowhere.
If she went to the window, she would see the car. Still, she didn’t move. She was afraid of knowing. She sat, shivering, eyes burning, wishing she could go back to sleep but afraid of returning to the dreams.
What are we going to do?
Things had gone bad. It was like sliding down a slope—she was incapable of stopping and knew every extra foot she fell would make the climb back so much more impossible. She didn’t know what to do to repair their relationship—or if it were even possible.
The caravan door creaked as it opened, and Clare flinched. Dorran stepped inside, wearing the same impassive expression he had the day before. Steam rose from a bowl in his hands, and he wordlessly approached the bed and held the food towards Clare.
It took her a moment to muster a response. “I’m not hungry.”
Dorran stared at the bowl. Then with slow, unsteady movements, he placed it on the kitchenette bench. The silence held for a moment, every second of it excruciating. Then Dorran turned to face Clare and took a deep breath. “You hate me. That is fine.”
Clare stared at him. Dorran’s back was straight and his shoulders set, but one hand rested on the bench, as though he needed it for stability. His face was blank, but his eyes, the only living part in his expression, were filled with desperation. He took another shuddering breath.
“I don’t need you to love me. I never asked for it, and I do not expect it now. We don’t have to talk. You can avoid me—that is fine. But I need you to be well. To eat, to drink, to stay healthy, if you can.”
The knots in Clare’s stomach tightened, impossibly painful. She wrapped her arms around herself. She felt like she would fall apart if she didn’t.
“You are the only good thing left in this world. I cannot lose you. I cannot—I cannot do this alone.” He pressed his hand to his chest, and his fingers dug into the shirt’s fabric. For a second, the shell cracked, and emotions flickered across his face: helplessness and despair. “I will not survive in this world alone. You don’t have to love me. But if I ever meant anything to you, please, I need you to fight.”
Clare shook her head. Tears burned as they slid over her lids, and she didn’t know where to look or what to do. Reflexes kicked in, and she stretched her hands towards Dorran.
He responded, stepping forward, his arms wrapping around her. That felt right.
“I don’t hate you.” She mumbled the words into shoulder, and his arms tightened. “Dorran… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m being horrible. I can’t think clearly. I-I—”
“I know.”
The word murderer resurfaced. It felt hollow. Just like he wouldn’t abandon her, he wasn’t cruel. He felt lost, like her. He had done his best to make the right choice, even when it was not clear. And he was scared. Not in a loud, obvious way. He held his fears close to his chest and masked them under steady reliability. But they were there, nonetheless. Fear that he wasn’t enough. Fear that he would make the wrong choice.
“You did the right thing.” Clare’s voice cracked, but she knew the words were the truth. She swallowed, trying to clear her throat. “Back at Marnie’s house, I mean. I’m sorry I reacted that way—”
“She was your aunt. You are in pain. That is human. It is the most human thing I can think of.”
In that moment, Clare no longer felt like she was sliding down an endless slope. Dorran had found her hand, and he was pulling her up. She was glad she could hide her face in his shirt. She didn’t want to meet his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Please.” He was hoarse. “I only want one thing. Would you eat?”
He adjusted her so that she sat at his side on the bed’s edge, then he reached to the kitchenette and retrieved the bowl. Clare took it and stared into the warm stew inside. She didn’t know how he’d managed to heat their food that morning—it would have taken a lot of effort to build a fire in the dirt outside the caravan—but he’d done it. She picked up the spoon.
The stew felt as though it were choking her, but every mouthful seemed to spread relief through Dorran. When she was done, he took the bowl from her, set it aside, then gathered her into his arms. He kissed her forehead. It was gentle. Desperate. She leaned into him, resting against his shoulder, holding him as tightly as he held her.
“I didn’t expect this to be so hard,” Clare managed. “I was only focussed on getting to Beth. Four hours there, four hours back. We were supposed to be home by now. But everything—the freeway, the bridges, Marnie…”
“It is worse than you could have anticipated.” He sighed. “Myself, as well.”
She’d been so focussed on her own pain, she hadn’t considered how he felt. “This must be horrible for you too.”
His fingers ran over her hair. “Do you remember, on our last day at Winterbourne, how I went to search the passageways alone? You were so angry when you found me.”
“Still am,” she mumbled.
That brought out a cautious smile. “I am sorry. I wasn’t trying to exclude you from the work. Sealing the doorways was just an excuse. In truth, I was searching for the creatures.”
She lifted her head, frowning at him. “Why?”
“Because I sensed we were close to leaving our home. And I felt so desperately unprepared. I needed more practice. I needed to understand them. I needed to be sure I knew what to do and how to protect you before we left our shelter.”
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t know if anyone is ready to handle the hollows. You’re probably doing the best any person can.”
“No. I am under-prepared, and in ways I did not even expect. Every day, every moment, I fear I am on the cusp of a mistake I cannot recover from. You have been hurt. Now you have lost your aunt. And—” His voice caught. “I do not know how to make this right.”