The warm water and quiet room were unbelievably peaceful. She’d love to stay here forever. But she couldn’t. Places like this weren’t made for people like her. Orphans. Couriers. Murderers.
Her breath caught in her chest. Killian thought she was a murderer. And maybe he was right.
Ever since she’d seen the news, she’d tried to keep the delivery separate from the bombing in her mind. They were the same thing, she knew that now.
Everything she’d told him had been the truth. All she had done was deliver a package, the same way she’d done for the last eight years. She never knew what was in them, only where to take them and when the deadline was. She’d delivered thousands of packages and parcels and whatever else the Tremaine Corporation needed delivered.
This was the first time anyone had been hurt by it.
The images she’d seen on the big screen right after her delivery replayed like a sideshow. The destruction and the faces of the people who’d been there. She still didn’t know how many people had been injured—had been killed!—because of her.
Reality hit, washing over her. The sob burst out of her with a wail.
Dizzie pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. The water sloshed around her as she rocked back and forth, making no effort to keep the tears under control.
Where did she go from here? Should she turn herself in?
If she were a better person, that was what she would do. But during those hours in the cell, the walls had closed in on her. If she turned herself in, it would surely be worse.
And what about whoever had sent the bomb? Dizzie stopped rocking and sat up, leaning back against the tub. She sniffled hard and willed the tears to stop. What about the actual bomber? If she was in custody, would they stop looking?
Of course. Nothing in all her years at the company indicated they would do anything else. They had a culprit, no need to do more.
Why should she give up her freedom when there was someone out there who had done much, much worse?
“What do I do?” she said aloud. Self-sacrifice wasn’t her style. She’d carry guilt from the delivery forever, but she wouldn’t carry the blame. Survivors like Killian and Portia wouldn’t see the distinction.
She dropped her head back onto the rim of the tub. So how did she find the person behind the package?
Alice was right. It had to be an inside job. No way had someone gotten that package through Business Services without assistance.
Her eyes drifted shut as the water and the bubbles pulled her deeper under their spell and twenty-four hours without sleep caught up with her.
Half awake, half asleep, Dizzie thought she heard her name.
The rap on the door startled her. She jerked and water sloshed around the tub.
“You okay in there?”
Even muffled by the door, Killian’s voice caused her warm and relaxed muscles to tense.
“Yeah, I’m, uh, fine,” she called out. Her voice was throaty from her crying jag.
No response. Maybe she’d imagined him.
She closed her eyes and the soft swish of the water and the crinkle of popping bubbles worked their magic again.
“You’ve been in there a long time. Do you need anything?” The door swung open.
Dizzie squeaked and slid down until her chin brushed the water’s surface and the bubbles provided camouflage.
“Oh! Sorry.” Killian cleared his throat, but remained in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were still in the bath.”
She appreciated that he turned away from both the tub and the mirror. “Sorry. I…” With no idea what to say, she trailed off.
Awkwardness hung in the air. An unexpected sense of intimacy lay beneath it.
“Do you need anything?” he asked again.
