The hitch in Kieran’s breathing when she first sank the full weight of her body onto his.
The way his hand trembled as he cradled her head to his chest.
The catch in his throat as he wept for their baby girl.
It was too much.
Too much feeling, too much unknown.
To calm her thoughts, she reached for Simon, reading and re-reading his most recent letter until her eyes began to cross. She wanted to feel the soothing peace of Simon, the unconditional solace that a life with him promised—comfort without the weight of obligation.
But all she felt was guilt. Guilt that she considered Simon to be a dear friend, and yet, still hadn’t told him the barest outline of her present situation.
What was she to do?
She hated the thought of putting the mess of her current predicament on paper. But Simon knew the basics of her history since landing in the Gillespie’s care, and he had accepted her. He would understand this situation, too.
And yet, sweet Simon would worry himself into a dither if he thought she might hang for a crime she could not remember committing.
She couldn’t do that to him.
Nor could she tell him about Kieran, for the same reason.
It was one thing to believe herself assaulted against her will. It was something else entirely to find she had a (sort of) husband.
What if after telling him all, Simon considered her married? What if she were doomed to live her life in this in-between place—not quite ‘married’ to Kieran, but unable to marry anyone else?
The thought was nauseatingly upsetting. She sighed and mentally added it to the long list of nauseatingly upsetting things she currently faced.
But . . . she could not, in good conscience, leave Simon to stew in his justifiable concern. To do so would beavoidancein truth.
In the end, she wrote Simon a kindly letter, telling him all was well, that she still cared for him, and she would return soon. She simply was waiting to answer some questions for the Judge Admiral.
She sanded the ink and then studied her words once more, making sure there was nothing alarming in them. Satisfied, she folded and sealed the letter, leaving it to be posted.
Now, what to do about Kieran?
Violet’s words came back to her:
Make sure Kieran is not the home you wish.
As advice, it was not . . . ill-informed.
As she had noted earlier, talking about her lost babehadbrought relief. A small piece of her that had been so broken had . . . if not healed, per se, at least scabbed over.
She felt less fractured. Lighter.
The first step in true healing she had experienced since the wreck.
For once, it felt possible to drift away from her numbness, if just for a wee while.
Perhaps, she should have listened to Alex’s medical advice sooner.
Could other ghosts be similarly exorcised?
But what if the process of exorcism brought absolute confirmation of her guilt? She didn’t think she could ever recover from the horror of having deliberately killed 127 men. The very thought set her hands to trembling once more—the black terror loomed, ever eager . . . waiting to pounce.
She pressed her fingers to her forehead.
