Actually, that’s not accurate. He’s not impassive—far from it. But he’s ... contained. She thinks about the way he freaked out Leo andhis friends with the steak knife comment at Hector’s yesterday. Did Noone just say it for effect? Or was he really angry? She can’t tell if his behavior and reactions are genuine, can’t read the intention behind his eyes, behind his words. Maybe it’s the amnesia. Maybe evenhedoesn’t know what he’s really thinking.
Seeing him like this—asleep, unguarded—is useful. She feels like maybe she’s at least getting a base reading.
It also feels a little sneaky. He sat up half the night to make sure she wasn’t affected by a concussion. The least she can do is not stare at him like a creeper while he’s unconscious.
Nomi gets up and goes to the bathroom.
She takes the Band-Aids off her face, examines everything in the mirror. Ugly, but she’s seen worse. The stitches look neat, astonishingly professional; best to keep her mind off the sensations she felt as Simon Noone placed them. She’s gonna need makeup for the bruising. There’s still a little blood in her hairline; she dampens a washcloth to sponge it away.
Behind the cabinet mirror, the yellow kit bag with her tools hasn’t been disturbed. Noone didn’t do any snooping last night, or if he did, he’s been real subtle about it.
Nomi finishes with the blood, examines and tends to her new ear piercing—it’s a little swollen, but doesn’t look inflamed. She cleans it carefully, then washes up, goes to make coffee. She’s moving slow; the Vicodin last night was strong, and with the added concussion, she still feels dopey. For the first time in a while, she wants a morning cigarette—probably because the smell of Noone’s Pall Malls is still hanging around the apartment. She’s going to have to open some windows, spritz her plants to clear the air.
A soft whine from Simon Noone, flopped on the lounge chair. His mauve eyelids flicker, and he mutters, repeating an unintelligible word. His hands twitch as if he’s dreaming.
Nomi tries to ignore him as she shuffles around in the kitchen between the benchtop and the fridge. She pours two mugs, adds creamand sugar. Makes a few gentle sounds with the spoon on the mugs, the refrigerator door. Next time she looks over, he’s awake.
“Hey, you’re up.”
“I never really lay down.” Noone clears his throat, squeezes his nape. Some of his hard edges seem blurred so soon after waking. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” Nomi makes a ghost grin. “Except some jerk woke me up every four hours to check I hadn’t slipped into a coma ...”
“What an asshole.”
“Right? Thanks anyway.” Now she comes over with the mugs and hands him one.
He rubs his neck, peering up at her face. “You took the dressing off.”
She settles back, cross legged, into her nest of blankets and cushions on the sofa, blowing on her coffee. She hopes she’s not blushing. “It was itchy, and I wanted to take a look.”
“It’s not a terrible idea, to give the wound some air.”
“I can’t believe you sewed me up with stuff from my landlady’s mending basket.” She takes a sip. The coffee won’t be up to Noone’s exacting standards, but it’s hot and has caffeine in it, and that’s all that matters. “You talk in your sleep. Did you know you did that?”
Simon stops in the act of raising his mug to his lips. “No. What did I say?”
“You repeated a word, maybe a name—Chris? Christian? Crystal?” Nomi tilts her head, until she realizes she probably looks like a crow examining something shiny. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not at all.” He seems genuinely baffled. He sips his coffee and manages to avoid grimacing at the taste. “Have you, uh, read my journals yet?”
“Not yet,” she admits. “I’ve been too busy getting beaten up. Although I’ve asked my ex-partner and a few other people for information on your leads.”
“That’s fine.” He rubs sleep out of his eyes, focusing on his mug. “It’s only that the journals might give you some insight into my condition. I have a few ... weird symptoms.”
“What do you mean by ‘weird’?”
He sips his coffee and sidesteps the question. “Well, for one, I have a recurring dream. I’ve had it ever since I woke up in Flores’s house. Every night, at first. Now, maybe a couple times a month. More frequently when I’m under stress.”
“Like the stress of moving illegally to a new country,” Nomi suggests. “What’s the dream?”
Noone tries to look casual about it. “It can vary, but there’s always a forest, and a girl, and she leads me to the river, and I drown.”
Nomi is intrigued. “Do you recognize anything? The forest—”
“It’s not familiar to me. It’s not a jungle, is what I mean. It’s more European looking.”
“And the girl?”
