Some of the shards are stained with crimson. My fear skyrockets.
I rap my knuckles on the door again, loud as I can this time, rattling the handle, making no secret that I want to get inside.
“Open the door!”
When there’s still no response, I thump the heel of my palm into it, then stand back. In a movie, I’d run at it and if the directorial gods were kind, it would fly open, letting me inside.
Worth a shot.
I throw myself at the door and luckily don’t hit it hard because the damned thing doesn’t give in the slightest; I’ll be wearing the bruises on my shoulder for days.
A kick below the doorhandle doesn’t get me anywhere, either. I sag onto the floor, tipping my head until it rests against the hard wood.
“Please tell me you’re okay.”
There’s silence for minutes, just the groggy pounding in my temples, the excited rush of blood through my eardrums.
Then I hear a small click and leap to my feet, turning the handle and pushing until I can slip through the gap.
Maddox sits with his back against the wall of the shower, vanity cabinet beside him, a large shower mat rucked up beneath his arse. Legs splayed. Hands dangling between his knees.
Those long, delicate fingers that I adore are wrapped around the handle of the revolver.
He lets his head fall back, bumping against the wall, staring at me like a drowning man’s eyes would stare through the waves closing above his head. It triggers such sympathy that I can scarcely breathe, my shock and confusion swept away.
How could I ever think of leaving him?
Fuck Blaine and his money. All I want is to bundle Maddox into my arms and take care of him. To look after him the same as he does for me.
Blood covers his other arm, streaks and spots of it creating a counterpoint to the white of his t-shirt, the pale skin of his face, his sunny blond hair clumping into unkempt tangles.
I sink to my knees beside him, seeing a large chunk of blue glass from the vase in the room, sticky with blood.
“Guess that’s a ‘no’ to the okay.”
A tiny smile hooks up one side of his mouth. His eyes meet mine, but they look nothing like him. They’re the eyes of someone too exhausted to continue, too tired to ask for help.
I reach for the glass, pinching it between my fingers and sitting upright to toss it in the sink. There’s another piece on his side closest to the cabinet and I take that, too.
His legs curl to his chest, pulling the revolver out of my easy reach. His body shakes so violently it makes the floor underneath me shudder.
“Can I take the gun?”
I hold my hand out to him, not wanting to get into a tug of war that I’ll lose but he draws it closer to himself, leaning it against the side of his head, finger flat along the barrel.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, and I feel a rush of pity and twisted anger.
“Don’t say that if you’re not going to hand it over. If you were truly sorry, you wouldn’t be scaring me like this.”
He tries to cover his face and I grab his empty hand, squeezing it until the bones creak and his mouth twists with pain.
“You shouted at me, you injected me, you dressed me in yoursister’s clothes.”And I know he told me about wanting to say goodbye but I’m not Addie and never have been and I’m so angry he treated me as an afterthought in my own life. “You did god-only-knows-what while I was unconscious and now you want—”
“Nothing happened.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed. “Somethingfucking happened, Maddox. You’re covered in blood.”
The hand in mine tries to withdraw and I turn it over, close to weeping as I see the jagged line scored in the flesh of his wrist. Not deep enough to sever anything important, but enough to show the intent, blood still leaking from the wound.
