“You’re shaking,” she said through sniffles.
He hadn’t noticed, and perhaps that was the point. Ignore the fear until it showed itself out. He knew better than to search for something steady to hold onto, but it was right in front of him.
“Are you okay?” Amelia asked, probably of the blood staining his shirt and skin.
With a question that simple, Emory came undone. He didn’t answer, and she wouldn’t make him, and so she came to him first. With her arms wrapped around his shoulders, she drew him into thewarmth of her body. Emory soaked it up; in dire need of her heat and the comfort it brought.
She said something, whispered it for only him to hear. Emory couldn’t remember what it was or maybe didn’t register it in the first place. All he knew was how she felt; the brush of her hair against his forearms slatted along her back; the smell of her perfume and the heart notes of blood; her chin perched on his shoulder and how in the back seat she let him hold her.
Amelia kept at bay every twisted thought he might have had, all but one, and so it remained, singular and taunting, out of order but still on cue:
Piece by bloody piece, I will destroy everything you love.
TWENTY-TWO
EMORY
When the parlor clock chimed nine, Emory counted his blessings with each resounding toll. They returned to an unscathed home front. The fallout was contained. The battle won.
But fate was sufficiently tempted with the ticking of time and whispers of gratitude. Dr. Gordon, physician to the Moriarty family, called with tragic news. Gio didn’t make it. He was too frail, the injuries too severe, the blood loss too much.
Midnight approached, but no one found solace in sleep. Emory walked the halls and observed luminous distractions on repeat—bedside light spilling beneath shuttered doors, the blue bleed from TVs, cigarette flickers in the dark.
When the sun went down and the other lights—those desperate beacons for some kind of peace—came on, most Moriarty men just wanted to forget. The ones with wives found comfort there. The ones with no one to call their own plucked a pick-me girl waiting in the wings.
Years ago, Emory had thought their open arms and parted thighs had everything to do with him. Mostly, it hadn’t, not until he achieved some status in their eyes.
He’d long since departed with burying his fear and frustration between the legs of a woman he hardly knew. Of the ones he didknow, he’d loved deeply only a few. Their tolerance of his world invariably faded, though, and when they wanted out, he set them free.
Emory sought refuge in the courtyard. It was a shadow space, shaded by day and forgotten by night. With nowhere to sit and no reason to linger, it functioned like a thoroughfare that connected the house’s wings and the terrace down below.
In the courtyard, the wind danced amongst the honeysuckle vines, and the stucco walls bled back warmth from the day. Beyond the courtyard’s fountain, he found Amelia perched at the railing overlooking the terrace. Barefoot, she drowned in an oversized t-shirt that doubled as a nightgown.
She didn’t stir at his startled double step but stared in tranquil fascination at the desert road where headlights glittered. Not so long ago, she would’ve stiffened at his approach as if bracing for a fight.
Amelia patted the railing beside her for him to join, the gesture a bellwether to how far they’d come.
“I was just wondering where that road leads,” she said and twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger.
Emory had pondered it himself a time or two, but some other thought—duty and business and who’s killing who—pummeled his daydreams until they stopped coming around. All he knew was it ran like an asphalt artery through dying towns. The years went by, and the heartbeat faded. Ashes to ashes, they’d all turn to dust.
“It leads out, I guess,” he said and folded his forearms on the railing.
Amelia scooted closer. “That’s as good a direction as any.”
“It was always my favorite.”
She lifted a hand to present the road, but Emory shook his head.
“I’d have to figure out how to get down from up here. The logistics are messy.”
Messy, yes, but treacherous too. A free fall from these heights meant sure death. If he survived, it’d be broken at the bottom,carrion for crows. Amelia regarded him with a doleful smile as if searching for some consolation to offer. Emory spared her the hunt.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, though it seemed obvious. Earlier, she’d absorbed the news of Gio’s death with quiet poise, but the sun set on troubled times that undoubtedly haunted her too.
Amelia shook her head and bent forward against the railing. The thin t-shirt rose up the back of her legs and revealed the slope of her ass. Emory’s blood heated with typical visions; her clothes on the floor and his mouth grazing the inside of her thighs. The fantasy had evolved, though, and he entertained how she’d feel curled against him as they slept.
“What’s the opposite of claustrophobia?” she asked.
