Kill is gone for the next three days. The one good thing to come out of this is that he arranges for someone to drive me to see Jones whenever I want while he’s away. I’m also able to stay as long as I like. I guess this is his peace offering, but I don’t accept it.

Watching my brother like this is hard, and knowing what’s going to happen to Callahan doesn’t make it easier. I thought it would. It’s weird between Jones and me. It has been ever since the first time Callahan did what he did. The secret we keep, it’s something that when I think about it, it makes me sick. It’s disgusting. Wrong. What Kill said about it not being my fault, I know that, but thing is, it doesn’t matter. It happened. It can’t be undone.

Strange enough, it’s worse now that I know what’s going to happen. Now that Kill knows. Or thinks he knows. I guess over the last years, that shame has numbed. Never gone but suppressed. Never weakened, just kept at arm’s length.

Jones isn’t getting better. Maybe it’s the detox itself. All the crap poisoning him as it leaves his system. But I’m not sure. He seems older now. Sadder.

We’re sitting at the bay window of his room looking out at the mist over the vast gardens. It’s early, but I wanted to be here early. He’s wearing pajamas. I’m not sure if he’s allowed to change out of them and chooses to keep them on or what, but I don’t ask. We don’t hold hands. We don’t touch. We never touch.

“Do you think it’ll ever go away?” he asks finally. He’s not looking at me.

I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve known it’s coming. We’ve been silent for eight years and this thing still owns us.

The skin around my eyes is wet but I don’t move to wipe the tears away.

“He’s going to kill him,” I say, concentrating on the passing traffic on the road just beyond the property line.

Jones shifts his gaze to me. I meet it. His eyes are red and puffy like he’s been crying for years. I guess in a way, he has been.

“You told him?”

I shake my head. “He thinks it’s something else.”

Jones nods. He doesn’t ask what this ‘something else’ is. It doesn’t matter what it is.

We both look back out the window.

“When?” he asks.

“I don’t know. It may already be done.”

Jones laughs. It’s a brief sound, and it’s not a joyful one, but I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh.

“What?” I ask.

“Is he in love with you?” Jones asks.

I face him. “What? No. Of course not. I think it’s because of what happened with his sister. When she killed herself, she was fifteen. Same as me when…” I drift off. Neither of us wants to go down memory lane. “She was pregnant when she did it. I didn’t know that.”

Jones meets my eyes. He should ask about what I just said, anyone would, anyone but Jones.

“Well, if I know Killian Black, he’ll make sure it’s not a painless death.”

“I guess that’s one thing we can count on him for.”

For the first time in eight years, Jones reaches out to take my hand. It’s tentative at first, but then he curls his fingers around mine and looks down at our joined hands for a long while before looking up at me again. “I’m tired, Cilla.”

I study him. He’s so calm. So sedate. I’ve always known Jones to be manic. Maybe he was high all the time and I just never knew it. Or never wanted to see it.

“Okay. I’ll let you get some sleep.” But that’s not what he means. I know that deep inside.

“You shouldn’t come here every day.”

“What?”

“It’s not good for you.”

“Jones—”

“I’ll be out soon. You can see me then.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” I’m joking, but I know that’s exactly what he’s doing the minute the words are out. “Jones?”

Panic makes me clench his hand, but he’s already pulling away.

“No. Never that, Cilla.”

It’s a lie. I know it. I hear it.

Jones smiles and stands. “Killian Black will protect what’s his and I don’t know if either of you know it, but I think you’re his. You’ll be safe now.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Just remember that sometimes the beasts aren’t what we think they are. Or who we think they are.” He looks so at peace and so knowing that I can’t help but watch him as he draws the covers back and lies on the bed. He closes his eyes and I think he’s already fallen asleep.

I look at him and I start to cry and can’t stop. Just tears falling, falling without sound. I seem to have a never-ending supply of them. I can’t help but feel like this is it. This is the last time I’ll see him.

“No.” I wipe my eyes and shake my head then tuck the blanket up to his chin. “I’ll see you soon, Jones.” I walk out the door and down the stairs. When I step outside, the air is freezing. It makes me shudder. John, the driver, pulls the car up to the front steps when he sees me. I get in and as we drive away, I glance up to my brother’s window where we’d just been. I wonder what our faces looked like up there.

Two lost souls.

Ghosts, really.

* * *

Helen delivers a garment bag to me on Saturday afternoon. I haven’t seen or heard from Kill in three days now but I guess I’ll be seeing him tonight.

Apart from going to the facility to see Jones, I’ve spent these days in my room with the window open, breathing in chilly air. All I can think about is my brother and how he was before I left the last time. How he fell asleep so quietly. So quickly. How strangely knowing he sounded just before that.

I think about what he said about beasts not being what they appear to be. Who we think they are. I think about his question to me but push that away. I can’t think about Kill that way—not as protector, not as lover. I’m his for one month. Just two more weeks to go. That’s all. As far as Callahan, I can’t think about that either because I don’t know what Kill’s done, if anything.

Helen tells me the time John will pick me up to drive me into the city. I have an hour so I reluctantly get up and drag myself into the shower. I feel like I’m on auto-pilot as I get ready, putting on makeup, lining my eyes more thickly than usual in darkest black, blow-drying my hair and pinning it into a twist, sweeping my bangs to the side. With fifteen minutes left to go, I unzip the garment bag to find the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen inside. It’s the color of ashes of roses. I take it out of the bag. It’s strapless and floor-length with a high slit on one thigh. Tender flowers and delicate pearls adorn one side of the dress from breast to hip.

I take off the bathrobe I’m wearing and put on the dress. It’s a perfect fit, the material hugging my body in the most flattering way. I open the shoe box next, momentarily forgetting my troubles, momentarily feeling like a princess. Inside is a pair of pointy-toe pumps in a shade of champagne to complement the dress. I sit on the bed to put them on and wrap the pretty straps around my ankles. The heels are thin but I stand comfortably and with the additional four inches, the dress just touches the floor.

The last box is gift wrapped in a shade of blue with a white ribbon any woman will recognize. Carefully, I undo the bow and set it aside. I take the lid off the box and find a second box inside. I take it out, brush my fingers over the velvet, open it to find a pair of platinum drop earrings with three diamonds on each.

I put my hand to my mouth. These probably cost more than I make in a month. I take one out, handle it gently as I put it on. I repeat with the other and, keeping my gaze down, I walk to the full-length mirror.

A knock comes on the door. “John is here.” It’s Helen.

“I’ll be right out,” I say, before raising my eyes to my reflection, not allowing my gaze to linger there. Not allowing myself to dwell on thoughts of what can’t be.