What kind of woman shows up at our funeral, then takes the hand of a man she hates? Unless she’s not afraid of me.
Unless… unless sheknewthis was coming. I pull her close—not gentle. Her eyes go wide.
“If you had anything to do with this,” I say, low enough that only she can hear, “I’ll know.”
“What thehellare you talking about?”
I huff out a growl, then I drag her toward the car, her hand locked in mine. Not because I want to touch her. I need her out of my hair and back where she belongs… as far away from me as she can get.
Chapter Two
Erin
“Well, then,”I say with forced cheerfulness. “At least your lunch is sort of a game, isn't it?”
Bridget tries to smile, but it twists into something closer to pain, the kind she's gotten too good at hiding.
“Aye? What do you mean?”
I poke at the white sauce over some no-name meat and shrug. “You have toguesswhat it is.”
My younger sister giggles, and my heart warms. It’s a good day when I can make her smile.
“Tell you what,” I say, pushing to my feet. “I’ll fetch you something better than this, alright?”
Standard caretaker script. It works eighty-nine percent of thetime.
“Would you?” Her eyes have gone pale blue under the latest dose of meds, and her lips are the softest blush of pink. Pupil dilation suggests the prednisone dose increased. Blue-gray sclera indicates?—
Stop it, Erin.
My stomach plummets when she turns, her hospital gown falling over her shoulder. I can see her bones poking through her skin.“I’d kill for a proper sausage roll. Can you get one, for real?”
Darling, I’ll give you the moon.
I reach for her too-thin hand and find it cold as ice. I tuck the blanket tighter around her. “Course I will,” I say softly.
I don’t want to leave her though. When she’s here at St. Vincent’s, I don’t even like to go home to sleep because I live in deadly fear that tomorrow might be the day I get the call that she’s gone.
Aplastic anemia, they call it, bone marrow failure.
I call it injustice.
Before I leave, I quickly check the color-coded notes I left for the nursing staff, double-check the locks on all her windows, and pat my pocket four times to make sure I didn’t lose my mobile or keys.
I kiss her wan cheek and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Mam’ll be in soon, after her meeting,” I whisper.
“Yay,” Bridget deadpans. “Can’t wait.”
I stifle a grimace. Bridget was her golden child, the beautiful angel of a girl with auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. My mother toted her around with her like a prize, dressed her in the prettiest dresses and frilliest bonnets. I was too awkward for any parading, and we all knew it.
Then Bridget got sick, and Mam won’t forgive her for it.
“Don’t fret, love. I’ll be back long before that.”
Bridget rolls her eyes. “I’m notfretting.Jesus, Erin, you sound like an old lady.”
I huff out a breath and roll my eyes. “There are worse things. At least men leave old ladies alone.” She laughs as the door shuts behind me.
