I suddenly feel empty, but the emptiness feels deeper. More profound. I look at my stomach. Empty. “I’m not pregnant anymore,” I say quietly, looking up at James. “Am I?”
He can only shake his head, his throat swelling. The emptiness multiplies, and I rest my head back on the pillow, looking at the ceiling. James may appear as sad as I feel, but I can sense his need for justice. “Where’s Lawrence?”
“He’s safe.”
“And Nath?” I look at him and know immediately that Nath is gone. I inhale, breathing out shakily, flinching at the pain that simply breathing brings. “Is Dexter still out there?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill him.”
I nod, accepting, because what else can I do? Stop James? Nature’s strongest force wouldn’t be able to stop him. My own uncle. A man I’ve looked up to for years. He’s watched me suffer. Held endless paper bags over my mouth when I’ve fallen into one of my merciless meltdowns. Held my hand. Spoken encouraging words. He fooled me. I feel myself begin to shake with the anger building, and I roughly wipe at my eyes, forcing myself to settle. Anger is pointless now. I’m helpless. Useless. It’ll only fuel James, and he looks like he needs no fuel.
Breathe, Beau. I take a moment to gather myself and gather my bearings, looking around. I expect to see medical machinery everywhere. I see only one piece next to my bed, a line into my arm. I expect to see harsh, tubular lighting above me. I see an elaborate gold chandelier. I expect clinical bed sheets. I see a sumptuous spread in rich autumnal colors. I gaze around the room, an extravagant, plush bedroom, and finish at the French doors onto a terrace.
“Where am I?” I ask, finding James on the edge of the giant bed.
“We’re safe.”
“That wasn’t my question.” I try to sit up, hissing as I do.
“Beau, for fuck’s sake, take it easy.” His palms gently press into my shoulders and push me back down.
“I’m fine.”
“God help me, woman, lie the fuck down.”
I relent, but only because the pain is too intense. “How long have I been out?
“A week.”
“A week?” I blurt, panicked. A whole week? I know what James is capable of in an hour. He’s had a whole week to rain holy hell on the world? “And where have you been?” I ask. Looking for Dexter? Oh God, what about Lawrence? He’ll be out of his mind.
“Here. Always here.”
I stare at him, stunned, but I see only sincerity in his expression. It’s a stark contrast to the man I first met. “A whole week has passed, and you’ve not killed one person?”
His smile is small and ironic. “I’ve killed more people in this one week than in my lifetime.”
Plotting. He’s been plotting. “Where are we, James?” I ask, gazing around again.
“Don’t worry about that for now.” He gets up and goes to the door, swinging it open. “Get the doctor,” he orders, and I see Goldie craning her neck, looking into the room. Searching for me. She looks worried, until she sees me on the bed, awake. And she smiles. But only through her eyes.
“Good to have you back, Beau,” she says gruffly. I’d call that affection, but I can only smile, and it’s weak.
James comes back and starts fussing around the sheets. He’s stalling. Diverting. Distracting. I reach for his hand and stop him. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Where is somewhere safe?”
“You have a lot of questions for someone who’s just come out of a week-long coma.”
“I’ve not even started,” I assure him. “Where—” The door knocks, and an older man walks in, his suit tweed, his beard gray. “Who are you?” I exclaim, looking to James for an answer.
“Beau, this is Doc,” he says, dismissing me, giving his attention to the elderly man. “Check her over.”
“I’m fine.”
“Shut up, Beau,” James snaps, and the doctor looks between us, a little alarmed. “Listen to me,” he warns the doctor, and he gets straight to it, checking me over. He reaches my stomach and presses lightly. I hiss.
“Fine,” James grunts, going to the stand where a bag of fluids hangs, pulling it closer as the doctor checks my pulse.
“I just need to empty your catheter,” the doctor says.
Catheter? I look at the ceiling, despairing, and close my eyes, hiding from my mortification. “Remove it,” I order, and the next thing I know, he’s poking around in a place he shouldn’t be. I breathe in and hold my breath, feeling the uncomfortable pull on my bladder. And when I open my eyes, he’s brandishing a bag of pee in the air. “Oh my God,” I murmur, looking at James to save me from this humiliation.
“Thanks, Doctor, I’ve got it,” he says, smiling softly. “She’s fine.”
The doctor nods and leaves with my bag of pee, and I sigh, lifting my heavy arm, seeing a new cast.
“You upset your break when you fell,” James says.
“How long will I be useless?”
He smiles, full of pity, and pours some water, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Here.” He directs a straw to my mouth, but I try to take the glass instead. It’s pulled back out of my reach. “Let me.”
“I can feed myself, James.” I am not depending on him to care for me. Never.
“Beau,” he breathes, his patience wearing. I don’t care. This is not how I’m wired. He knows that. “You’ve been shot. You’ve lost . . .” He fades off, his nostrils flaring. “Just let me look after you, for fuck’s sake.”
I swallow, wary of the monsters in his eyes, and drop my mouth open for him. I need to pull my head out of my ass and let him do whatever he needs to do to deal with this. Take care of me. And kill. But what about me? What will get me through this? The weight of the world feels heavy again. It lightened when I met James. He provided a relief. Now, there are more secrets. There’s more danger. More hatred. And on top of that, my body is broken along with my spirit. So there will be no walking that path of nothingness with James for a while. No ecstasy. No mind-numbing bliss.
I suck on the straw and swallow, blinking back the tears. No more tears. I will not cry. God, I want to cry.
“Want some sunshine on your face?” James asks, setting the glass back on the nightstand.
No darkness.
I nod, tearful, and he helps me negotiate my stiff body to the edge of the bed. The whole time, my teeth are clenched, my muscles tense, trying to stem the pain. The soles of my feet meet the soft carpet. That hurts too. And I get a little head rush, just from sitting up.
“Whoa,” I whisper, swaying.
“Okay, bad idea.”
“No.” I grab his arm. “I’m not lying in that bed feeling sorry for myself.” Thinking about what we’ve lost. What’s happened. How it happened. Who did it. “I need sunshine on my face. I need rainbows, James.” My voice, infuriatingly, quivers. Rainbows are a long way away. I realize that.
He nods, understanding, and helps me to my feet, watching me closely, waiting for any signs that I might pass out. “I’m okay,” I assure him, lifting one foot and placing it down, leaning into his big body as he holds me around the waist with one arm and pushes the metal stand holding the bag of fluids along with the other. I look to the French doors, to the gorgeous, green, vibrant garden beyond. “It’s beautiful.”