Jack

I stretch out on Stella’s bed. One of her birds is singing. The other’s tucked into the corner, head under its wing. Kind of like Stella. She’s barely left the couch since the mugging. The swelling’s gone down on her ankle, and her bruises have faded to a sickly green, but it’s like all the energy’s been drained out of her. I brought out her laptop earlier—thought she might appreciate something to do—but she pecked at the keys for a few minutes and went back to sleep.

This is on my head.

I fish out my watch. Sixteen hundred hours, but there’s nothing to do. Took the week off to take care of her, but she doesn’t want anything. I help her to the bath twice a day, try to get her to eat, and that’s it.

Maybe she’d let me brush her hair. I wander over to her vanity. Her brush is right there, where she left it: an ornate, gilded thing, soft-bristled, with her initials on the handle. Looks sentimental. Like something her mother would’ve gotten her. I rifle through the rest of her things: a matching mirror, a set of makeup brushes, a nail file. A watch with some Italian inscription on the back. Just what she came with. The rest of them—they all got straight to work, spending my money. Filled the place with everything under the sun. Stella wanted the comforts of home.

Home. I could get her something from there. Italian food, or.... Or.... I’m drawing a blank. I’ve never asked. Never been curious enough to find out.

I sit down and dig through her drawers. There’s not much there, either—makeup, hairpins, a few pairs of earrings. The string of black pearls she wore to her interview with Katrina. I remember those. She kept touching them on the way out. When she thought we couldn’t see her any more.

This isn’t helping. I need to get her off that couch, whether she wants it or not. Drag her back to the land of the living.

“Sir?” Starkey’s hovering in the doorway. At least he’s dressed today.

“What is it?”

“I could go out, if you want. Pick up some stuff. Her favorites....”

“I can do that myself.”

Starkey doesn’t flinch, but the corners of his mouth quirk downward. Guess there’s no need to snap, but I hate the insinuation he knows her better than I do. He doesn’t. He can’t. He might be the one who does her shopping, but I’m the one who takes her to dinner. Listens to her stories. Lets her steal from my wardrobe. That’s my shirt she’s snuggled into right now. Not Starkey’s.

“I’ll just—”

“No.” I hold up my hand. “Go. That’s a good idea.” And it’ll get him out of here for a while.

I follow him out to the living room and plunk myself down on the loveseat. Might as well let her sleep a while longer. At least till Starkey gets back.

The fall weather’s finally here. It’s been windy for days, gray skies for miles. The rain’s drumming on the windows again. No wonder Stella won’t wake up: it’s like a goddamn white noise machine. One I can’t turn off. I’m getting drowsy myself. Heavy-eyed.

I let my head droop. Doesn’t matter if I nap. The door’ll wake me up. Always been a light sleeper. Well, almost always. It was different for a while—those blue lake days, after....

I jolt upright, startled by...nothing. Nothing’s changed. Stella’s still sleeping. The rain’s coming down. Thunder rumbles in the distance, moving toward the horizon.

Must be going nuts, cooped up in here. I fumble for my train of thought. The blue lake: how I pictured my Vicodin haze. After the incident. Fathoms of water, flattening me to the lakebed. Not painkillers, but guilt. The terrible decision I couldn’t take back. I felt it for the first time before the hospital, in the desert, Erik crouched over me, packing gauze into the gaping hole in my belly.

Magnus was digging a hole. Ferris was staring at the sky, McHugh curled on his side, like he’d fallen asleep.

I wondered things, then, in my cocoon of shock. Fuzzy little questions, like how Erik and Magnus had found me so fast. How they’d found me at all. How they’d strolled in so easily, like they belonged. Questions I never let myself ask again, because it was too late.

What was done was done.

Stella stirs in her sleep, but doesn’t rouse. This is my handiwork, too.

I keep telling myself it’s too late, but that’s only true if I’m not willing to accept the consequences. I could own up to everything. Bring it all down in flames, and me in the cockpit.

I just need a couple of weeks. Time to tie up loose ends, make sure no one innocent gets hurt.

Stella’s huddled against the back of the couch, curled into the cushions. Makes my heart ache to see her so alone, so I stretch out alongside her, careful not to jostle her awake. She breathes the smallest of sighs as I bury my face in the crook of her neck.

“It’ll all be over soon,” I tell her.

Whatever the cost.