"Yes."
"Where did you learn to do that?" He looks at me, his eyes searching my face.
"A weekend in the woods with a dead pig."
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. It transforms his face, softening the hard angles. "Of course."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. He sees the blood on my t-shirt. The dirt smudged on my cheek. The way my hair is standing up.
"Why did you stay?" he asks.
The question is quiet. Vulnerable.
"Because you're the only person who knows the truth," I say. "About the coin. About the tie. I can't solve this without you."
It’s the truth. It’s the logical answer. But it’s not the whole truth.
He watches me. He knows I’m holding back.
"That's not the only reason," he says.
"No."
"What's the other one?"
I look at his hand, resting on the blanket. His knuckles are raw, the skin split.
"I'll tell you when you're not bleeding," I say.
"Coward."
"Strategist."
"Same thing."
He closes his eyes. He shivers. "I'm cold."
It’s a symptom of the blood loss. I look around the room. There are no other blankets. The fireplace is empty, just a pile of cold ash.
I stand up.
I take off the tactical vest—the one with the stain on it, the secret evidence of what I did in the container. I fold it inside out and put it on the chair, hiding the shame. I take off my boots.
I look at the couch. It is narrow. It is not meant for two people.
I lie down anyway.
I fit myself behind him. My chest against his back. I drape my arm over him, careful to avoid the wound, my hand resting on his chest.
He is warm. He smells of sweat and antiseptic and the iron tang of blood.
He stiffens for a second. His muscles lock up.
Then he relaxes. He leans back into me, accepting the heat.
His hand finds mine. He interlaces our fingers. His grip is weak, but it’s there. The calluses on his palm scratch against my skin.
"Alessandro," he whispers.
