Conrad and Barry have been reported as missing, along with the rest of the hierarchy; the authorities believe they’re on the run, and that my sister’s actions of speaking up against a society that tried to control her cost her life.
Yeah, that was the only thing I could think of as being close to forgiveness.
Even though a small part of me will never comprehend her actions completely, the fact she endured it all just to keep Mom and I safe? Staying away because they killed our father for her disobedience?
It’s a hard pill to swallow.
We marked all the files and evidence as coming from Louisa, made out everything that Regina and I uncovered, along with Ultio, was all down to my sister.
We don’t want the credit for it. I could also go to jail if anyone looked through the murders with a fine-toothed comb, so we kept my death toll separate. I might be a killer, but I don’t deserve to be trialled for doing the right thing.
My faith will never be restored in the authorities, no matter if their crimes are being brought to the light.
I sigh, pinching my nose when I feel the strain along my forehead.
My head still battles with the thoughts. I know Louisa endured years in a marriage she was fooled into; I understand she was a victim of coercion, living in fear since the moment she was forced to do everything they asked her.
She couldn’t win to keep anyone safe.
Dammed if she did, dammed if she didn’t.
My throat constricts, and I try to clear it, but the sob gets stuck, causing me to choke. Hands wrap around my waist, pulling me into the only safety net my mind doesn’t seem to slip through. “I’m here, beautiful girl.”
My eyes squeeze shut as Saint holds me to his front, and when my body trembles to the point I can’t control it, he turns me to face him. I’m scooped up in his arms, and my legs wrap around his waist as I bury my face into his neck. He carries me into his bedroom and sets me down on the bathroom counter.
My blurry eyes stare at the wall, my skin becoming clammy, and by the time I break my fixation with the tiles, I notice he’s run a bath.
We don’t speak a word as he helps me out of my clothes, holding my hand as I sink down into the warmth. I don’t always need to say what I’m feeling; Saint just knows.
He can sense when my silence means my thoughts are loud. When my smiles are to hide the sadness threatening to drown me. That even though I’m standing tall, I’m ready to fall apart.
“Tilt your head back,” he whispers, leaning over the side of the tub and kissing my temple. I do as he says, the water soaking my hair as he washes it. The gesture causes my butchered heart to constrict.
Once he’s finished, he squeezes the water out of it, twisting the ends tight and wrapping it in a bun with a hair tie.
The first huff of a genuine laugh leaves me in weeks, and my voice is croaky. “Who taught you that?” I ask, glancing up at him.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “When you’ve been sleeping, I happen to end up stuck with your best friends, seeing as they’re always glued to mine.”
I spend most of my time napping. I’m so exhausted that I can’t fight the ache in my bones. I replay everything that’s happened in my life these past few months.
I sometimes think my psyche is slipping, and I’ve tried to open up more to the girls. Talking helps, just not when you hold back, not wanting to bother the people you love. I know they’d listen, and it’s early days. I’ll get there with everything; I always do. Thank God Doctor Beverley is still hanging around, although we’ve all probably pushed her back into retirement.
Saint helps me out of the bath, wrapping me in a fluffy towel, and leads me to the bed. He heads over to the closet whilst I dry off, returning with a pair of his sweatpants and hoodie for me.
Once I have them on, the comforting notes of his aftershave wrapping around me, he throws back the covers for me to get into.
I stare up at him as he sits against the headboard. His hand is scooped into the neck of the hoodie, palm gliding across my spine.
We lie in a comfortable silence, and the question that’s been lurking in the back of my mind is loud. I’ve been batting it away, not ready to deal with it quite yet.
It’s time to rip off the Band-Aid.
“Can you get them?” I whisper, looking up at Saint.
“Sure.” He leans to the side and dips his hand under the bed, pulling out two envelopes. “Do you want me to go?”
“No. Stay, please,” I say softly, my shaky hands taking the pieces of paper off him.
