I remember what Jones said to me the last time I was here. How he acted so strange. It was as though when I told him that Kill knew about Callahan, that he’d murder him, he was freed of something, something too heavy to bear. Like he could finally rest.

All these years I’ve thought I’ve been watching out for Jones, but maybe he’s been watching out for me. I don’t know any longer who’s on more shaky ground, me or him. I don’t know who was—is—more damaged.

Maybe there aren’t degrees of damage, though. Maybe we’re all just clinging to the buoy, any buoy, just managing to keep our noses out of the water. Maybe it’s a matter of who went under more. Who took in too much water, too much for there to be any room left for breath. For life.

Jones is lying in a hospital bed in a different room than the one he was in. He has too many tubes attached to him to count. His skin is pale and his lips have lost any color. He looks like a ghost under a sheet. How much weight has he lost these last weeks? The beeping of the machines is overwhelming, they seem to muffle everything else, the other machines, the doctor talking to Kill. Kill’s angry words.

I pull the chair closer and sit beside my brother’s bed. It’s a clear night and the moon shines its silvery light through the large bay window. It’s an almost unnatural light. It feels like we’re in a space between worlds. Like he’s already left this one.

His arms are above the sheet and, with my hand trembling, I reach out to touch his fingers, slowly gather them into mine. I feel the tickle of a tear sliding down my face but I don’t move to wipe it away. Instead, I look at him, his face. Feel his cold skin beneath mine.

I knew this was coming the other day.

I knew it the moment he took my hand. It was the first time we’d touched each other since we left Callahan’s house. I’d been sixteen. Callahan arranged for Jones to have legal guardianship of me. That was part of the deal. Do as we were told and in time, we would be free. Don’t and Callahan would hold on to me once Jones was out. Jones wouldn’t be there to protect me anymore. And if Jones told, who’d believe him when Judge Callahan was an upstanding citizen? A man who took in those no one else wanted?

I moved out of Jones’s apartment when I turned seventeen. Got a job, supported myself. I think we were both relieved to be apart, although we were never far from each other. Jones tried to put more distance between us with all the moves, but I always followed with the excuse of watching out for him. Saying that he needed me. He didn’t need me, though. He needed to be away from me because I know every time he looked at me, he saw what we did. That was one thing I was better at than him. I could block it. I did it while it was happening. I did it when I left. It’s like it wasn’t me at all.

“Cilla,” Kill’s hand is on my shoulder.

Startled, I look up at his face.

“One of the nurses forgot something in his room and returned after giving him his medication. It’s lucky for him that she did because she found him quickly enough and they were able to cut him down before it was too late.”

“So he’ll be okay?” The question doesn’t fit. I know Jones will never be okay, not like other people.

“He’ll survive this without permanent damage, yes.”

There’s more in the way he doesn’t say things than in the words he says. He knows it too. He knows Jones will never really be okay.

“He was lucky,” Kill continues. “This time.”

I look at him when he adds on that last part. “I’ll stay with him. He won’t do it again.”

“Are you going to watch him 24/7?”

“I can’t abandon my brother.”

“He’s heavily sedated, Cilla. He may need to be—”

“I won’t abandon my brother,” I repeat more slowly.

“He needs a different sort of care than you can provide.”

He’s right, I know, but it still feels like abandonment, and I can’t face that right now. Instead, I rise to my feet. Face Kill.

“You did this,” I say.

“What?”

“You did it. It’s because of you. All of this happened because of you.”

His eyes narrow, but inside them, I still see pity. Fucking pity. Now, after everything.

“Get out,” I say, planting my hands on his chest, attempting to shove him.

“You’re in shock—”

“Get the fuck out of my brother’s room!”

The doctor says something, walks toward us, but Kill puts his hand up to stop him without ever taking his eyes from me.

“I’ll call the police,” I say. “Tell them about our contract. Tell them about your business.” I shove again, this time, he captures my wrists. “Get out. Right now.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” he says, but his calm is a thin façade.

“I don’t want your help. I never asked for it and neither did he!”

“You did ask for it,” he reminds me.

“So this is my fault?”

“No, it’s no one’s fault, but you can’t put your life on permanent hold to help your brother and that’s exactly what you’d be doing if you think you could handle this yourself.”

I try to pull free, but can’t. “Let me go.”

He watches me, and I want to know what he sees, what he thinks, but he doesn’t let on. Just keeps hold of me and all those damn machines are too loud. Too fucking loud. And it’s like he knows it’ll only be another minute, another second, before I break down again because that’s all I can seem to do these days. All I can do around him unless I fight him. There’s no in-between for us. He knows the truth. I see it in his eyes. He learned it when he went to get my pound of flesh.

“Cilla,” he says, a hint of tenderness in the way he says it.

“Stop. Let me help you.”

I shake my head, drop my gaze, but his words, God how I want to say yes. How I want to melt into his strong arms, let him hold me. Keep me.

Hide me.

“Cilla.” The way he’s holding me changes. He pulls me to him, or tries but, but I can’t. I can’t want this. Can’t have it. It’s too hard and I want to go back to the way it was before. Before I asked for his help. Before he found out.

A machine starts to beep. I turn, we both do, and a team of doctors and nurses rushes in.

“You need to go,” one of them says.

“No!” They’re calling out orders, words that don’t make sense to me. I can’t see my brother anymore.

“You need to take her outside,” someone says again.

Kill nods, takes me by the arm and forces me out.

“What happening?” I’m frantic, but Kill won’t let me go. He just keeps holding me, keeps pulling me into his chest, keeps petting my hair, trying to soothe me.

The frantic sounds from the room quiet a few moments later. That’s when Kill loosens his hold on me, let’s me turn toward the door. He’s still got my wrist and won’t let go.

“Let’s sit down,” Kill says. He doesn’t wait for me to reply but walks us to the chairs down the hall.

I don’t know how long we sit there, but I can hear the beeps come regularly now. If it was a bad sign, they’d come to tell us. They’d come right away. I just keep my eyes on the door of Jones’s room for I don’t know how long until, finally, a doctor steps out.

“He’s stable again,” he says. He’s watching us cautiously.

I breathe a sigh of relief, try again to pull free. “I want to see him.”

The doctor and Kill exchange a look, before the doctor turns to me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Ms. Hawking. Your brother can hear what’s going on. I’m certain of it. And he’s in a very delicate state right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he can be upset very easily. I think it’s best if you go home.”

“Go home?” I turn back to find Kill watching us. I realize he moves his hand so he’s no longer gripping my wrist but holding my hand. “I don’t understand,” I tell the doctor.

“He’ll be okay, we’ll pull him through this, but he needs some time to heal.”

“Without me.” It’s not a question. I’m Jones’s poison. What happened…he sees it every time he sees me.

“Cilla,” Kill starts. “I’ll bring you back in a few days.”

“I think that’s best, Mr. Black.”

“You’ll call me with hourly updates,” Kill says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Kill turns me to face him, takes my shoulders, rubs them, squeezes a little until I look up at him. “He’s going to be okay. Let’s give him some time. Space.”

I shake my head, but I’m powerless.

“Come on, Cilla.”

I let him walk me down the hall, out the front doors. He doesn’t speak as he sets me in the SUV, straps me in. He doesn’t start the car right away but checks messages on his phone, talks to Hugo. I’m not really listening, though. Instead, I look out into the fields Jones and I were watching just a few days ago. There’s no traffic on the lonely road beyond.

When he hangs up, we pull out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?”

“I need to stop by the club. Pick something up. We can stay at the penthouse tonight so we’ll be closer.”

I lean my head back, close my eyes for a minute. “He wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t told him what you were going to do to Callahan.”

“You can’t know that. Jones is in a bad place. He’s detoxing and maybe for the first time in his life, he’s facing what happened. Or being forced to.”

The unspoken fact that he knows everything sits in the car with us, taking up too much space, not leaving any for me.

“This needs to end,” I say, facing him.

“You’re upset. We’ll talk about it later.”

“No. Not later. Now.”

He sighs, turns to me, squeezes my knee in warning. “Later. And we’re not talking about ending anything. We’re talking about what I learned.”

I swallow. He studies me and his eyes, it’s like they penetrate to my core. He knows everything. I shift my gaze to my lap. I can’t do this. I can’t talk about what happened. I need out. I need away from him.

Traffic picks up as we near the city, take the turnoff to the club. The parking lot is empty but for one car. I check the time and realize it’s been hours since we left the party. I thought it had been minutes.

Kill makes a sound when he sees it. It’s a low, displeased growl. He parks beside the car, switches off the engine, turns to me.

“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Are you afraid you won’t have the remaining weeks you’re owed?” I ask.

He blinks, looks confused. “What?”

I have to say it. Enrage him. Wound him. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re afraid you won’t have access 24/7 to the pussy you’re owed? That’s why you won’t let me go?”

He fists his hands and I can see the anger creeping into his face.

“I’ve hit the nail on the head, huh?” I keep going, goading him, because it’s the only way I know how to deal with this.

“No, Cilla, that’s not it.”

“Then let me go.”

He shakes his head, rubs his jaw, runs that hand through his hair. It sticks up when he does, dark spikes on top of his head. “It’s been a really long night.”

“For me too. A long two weeks.”

He takes the key out of the ignition and opens his door. “I’ll be back. Stay here.”

I climb out too, follow him, my heels echoing in the empty night. “You don’t hear me, do you? You don’t hear anything but what you want.”

We reach the side door and he chooses a key from the ring in his hand, turns to me. “I heard and saw plenty at Callahan’s,” he says.

It’s like a hit to the gut. I clutch my belly, stumble backward, feel my face burn, feel shame spread its icy darkness through me.

“Shit. Cilla, that’s not—”

I look down, grip the railing to keep upright. “I need some water.” And to disappear from here. From his sight.

It takes him a moment, but he slides the key into the lock, then stops because the door isn’t locked. “Fucking Benji.”