“Get out,” I say.
He straightens, trying to reclaim what he already lost. “You think this ends with me?”
“I think you’re drunk.”
“I think you’re scared.”
We stand inches apart, both lying.
Finally, he steps back. “This isn’t over.”
“No,” I agree. “It never is.”
Declan turns for the door.
My fingers find the small canister in my pocket—not because I plan to use it, but because I like options. Options make people polite.
“Declan,” I call, soft. “Wait. I need your help with something.”
He pauses, jaw tight, like he’s deciding whether to be a decent man or a resentful one. Decent always loses.
“What?” he asks.
I tilt my head, let my eyes go tired. “The bell tower.”
His brow creases. “What about it?”
“It’s been ringing at night,” I say. “Not the full chime—just… one note. There’s a rusted hinge on the door that needs tightening, I think that will keep the wind out and stop the bell from ringing but I don’t have the tools to do it. It’s keeping me up at night. If you could just take a quick look?”
He looks past me, toward the dark window, toward the silhouette that anchors the property. Wind sighs through the grounds like a warning. Then—faintly—the bell answers, a thin accidental ring. Perfect timing. Thank you, Jesus.
“You’re lying,” he says, but he’s already walking. Men love to feel useful. Even when they hate you.
We go out the front door and he stops at his truck, grabbing a screwdriver and hammer before moving onto the path that cuts through the gardens. Saints watch from the shadows. A fountain coughs green water into a stone bowl. The air smells like dust and old incense and roses that refuse to die.
“You picked a church,” he mutters. “Of course you did.”
“It’s a convent,” I correct, sweet as a hymn. “There’s a difference.”
He stops at the base of the tower. The door is narrow. The stairs spiral up into darkness.
“You ruin everything you touch,” he says, voice low. “You ruined my life.”
I step close enough that he can smell my perfume and hate it. “You ruined your life,” I whisper. “You just needed a woman to blame so you could keep calling yourself a good man.”
His face flashes—anger, shame, hunger. He wanted to be my hero. He wanted to be my only person. He wanted the story where he mattered.
We climb. The metal steps groan. The wind threads through the slats and worries the tower like fingers on a ribcage.
At the top, the bell sways on a chain from a rafter, an old iron door hangs half off its hinges, rusted, bowed, clinging to habit more than hardware. Beyond it: nothing but brush, stone, emptiness.
I position myself on the safe side of the frame.
“You know what you really hated?” I say, calm. “That I never needed you. Not even when you thought I did. You were…useless.”
“Shae—fuck, I put my life on the line for you. I risked my job—they put me on leave after you left because they found out about that delivery to the outside?—”
I smile, thinking how well everything came together.
