When I nodded, he got out his phone to search for flights. I watched him—the focused furrow of his brow,how his fingers attacked the keyboard—and felt a swell of gratitude that I wasn’t doing this alone. That whatever we’d lost last night, I still had him.
Even as I thought it, a colder voice whispered in the back of my mind.Do you? Do you have him without Kiernan? Or was what you had only possible because of the three of you together?
I pushed the thought away. There would be time to face it later. Right now, we needed to get home.
The flight wasninety minutes of staring out the window, trying to stop the thoughts racing through my head. Oliver sat beside me, his hand resting on mine. We’d barely spoken since leaving the hospital.
What was there to say?
I thought about all the flights I’d taken in my life. Diplomatic missions with my parents. Training exercises for MI6. The helicopter ride to Glenshadow, where I met the man who’d changed my life in a few short days.
I’d flown into Scotland for the Labyrinth investigation, thinking I knew what was waiting for me. A surveillance op. Targets to observe. I hadn’t known about the castle in the Highlands. The viscount with shadows in his eyeswho taught me about things I hadn’t known I wanted until he showed them to me.
Now I was flying out again, and everything I’d discovered about myself felt like a cruel joke. A door that had opened enough to show me what was on the other side before slamming shut in my face.
Oliver squeezed my fingers as the plane began its descent. “We’re going to be okay, Phee.”
My eyes bored into his. “Are we?”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my palm. “One way or another. I promise.”
My flat felt wrong.
I stood in the doorway, keys still in my hand, and tried to remember the last time I’d been here. Close to two months ago?
The space looked like it always did—tidy, minimal, everything in its proper place. My books arranged by subject and height in the cases. My grandmother’s tea set displayed in the glass cabinet. The view of London through windows that felt too large now, letting in too much dismally gray light.
Oliver came in behind me, carrying our bags. He set them down by the door and looked around.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Thanks.”
The word felt hollow in my mouth. I crossed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, then closed it again when I saw the empty shelves.
“I should order food,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
Neither was I. But asking about food was normal. Ordering takeaway was normal. If I could keep doing normal things, maybe eventually something would start to feel that way again.
I ordered Thai from the place down the street. Oliver sat on my sofa—a real sofa, soft and cream-colored, nothing like the gray monstrosity at the safe house—and stared at the wall. I sat beside him and stared too.
The food arrived. We picked at it without enthusiasm. The pad thai tasted like cardboard, or maybe my taste buds had simply stopped working along with everything else.
“He didn’t even give us a reason.”
I looked up. Oliver was still staring at the wall, but his jaw was tight, his hands clenched on his thighs.
“Nothing,” he continued, his voice rough. “He told us to leave like we were nothing.”
“Oliver—”
“I trusted him.” The words came out jagged, broken at the edges. “I trusted him with things I’ve never—” He stopped, shaking his head. “And he threw me away.”
My throat tightened, and I turned to face him fully.
“I know.”
