Chapter 7
Dorian
T here are too many variables to Paul’s threat for me to draw the appropriate barriers. I can’t be sure just how keen an eye he has out for me. Seeing Katherine in the hospital isn’t a good idea, but every impulse surrounding her isn’t in either of our best interests.
In the end, I go where my feet take me.
According to Dana, the duration of her doctor’s observations of her is almost up. She’s cleared most of his cognitive tests, and her latest scans prove that her brain and skull are healing. Other than taking it slow for a few weeks, she’s mostly in the clear.
While that news alone should be relieving, all things considered, I’m painfully aware that being released means that Katherine will be out of a building with a round-the-clock security team, surveillance, and witnesses.
The ebb and flow of an internal argument about what I should and shouldn’t do regarding Katherine filters through my head as I walk up the pathway to the hospital’s main entrance. I’ll still pay the medical bills; that isn’t a question. The auto insurance claim with Mr. Woods’s dispute has already been handled. I wrestle with laying low, putting distance between us, hoping that Paul won’t perceive her as a threat.
But he’s killed before…and he’ll most certainly do it again.
“Dear God, it was an accident.”
I shake away the memory of my father’s voice and continue up the walkway.
I travel like a ghost through the hospital, following the path I created weeks prior, which I’ve followed every day since. I pass the maternity and pediatric wards on the way to the neurology inpatient rooms. I don’t hesitate to step through the open door of her room without knocking or announcing myself.
“Oh, Dorian!” Katherine greets me with a grin from the hospital bed. The way she calls my name sends an intense wave of pleasure through me that feels wrong, but I don’t fight it. I watch as she shuts the book in her lap.
“I thought you’d be by later.”
“Our meeting concluded a little earlier than I expected,” I tell her. “How are you feeling?”
Katherine sits up, adjusting the pastel blue blanket over her lap. “Just fine. What about you?” She scrunches her nose in sympathy, and the expression melts me slightly. “Was the meeting very boring?”
“In a way,” I say, taking my usual seat and peeling my coat from my shoulders. It’s as if there’s more air in this room with Katherine than anywhere else. “Everyone is supposed to air their grievances, though I suspect half the company may have bit their tongue around me. I’m not very popular.”
“Don’t they know you’re the COO and not to mess with you?”
My heart thumps irregularly with a swell of affection at the sweet tone of her voice. Sometimes, I feel that we may forever be strangers, but our little talks prove that we’re slowly but surely getting to know one another. “Should I tell them to take it up with you if they have an issue?”
Katherine giggles, and it gives me a rush of dopamine. “I’ll set them straight.”
Today, she has her auburn hair tied into braids. For only a brief moment—the tiniest sliver of a window—I realize the shape of her breasts beneath her gown as she pushes back her shoulders.
Immediately, I’m met with shame. A move to try to alleviate stiffness in her back, and I’m ogling her. She’s bedridden, and I’m checking her out; what’s wrong with me?
I glimpse the book at the edge of the bed, desperate to put the blip of lust behind me. “Have you gotten very far into any of my book recommendations?”
“I did! Mom found this at the library.” She proudly displays a well-loved paperback copy of More Than Human by Theodore Sturgeon. Her sunflower-shaped bookmark juts out of it at the halfway point. “It’s very engaging. A little over my head, but that might be because it’s above my reading level.”
“Not all books are for everyone,” I concede. “I couldn’t read a Dickens novel if you paid me. I feel his metaphors are belabored.”
Katherine snickers and lowers the book to her lap. She traces the cover with her fingers, almost lovingly, and I find myself desperate to see what she might be thinking.
How could Paul want to do her any harm?
But then, did anyone eclipsed by the curse of the Wards ever deserve to be consumed by it? My mother didn’t.
“Have you been trying any puzzles?” I blurt out, trying to escape my own memories. “It’s important to keep your mind sharp.”
“My noggin got rocked, Dorian…I don’t have dementia,” she teases, then frowns at the book. “I’m not good at them anyway. I wouldn’t want someone to think something’s wrong because I’ve left everything blank.”
I angle for humor, even if the smile doesn’t feel right. “Can’t be good at everything, of course.”
“I’m just an idiot,” she says, sending the smile crashing down off my features.
The reaction wakes a dormant sting that she seems to breathe more and more life into. Before thinking about what my body’s doing, I rise to my feet and close the gap between us. I stand over her, with her head tilted back to regard me with confusion.
I lift a hand to her face, carefully trailing the backs of my fingers against her flushing cheek. I marvel at the progress of her healing. The bruising is nearly gone, and the wounds are decreasing in size ever so slowly. It’s good to see how far along she’s come.
“Why would you say that?” I ask her in a low voice.
In a way, it’s a challenge; I’ve known her only for a short while, but surely she can see her importance to me, see the clear offense her claim is. Whether it’s gratitude, however deeply buried, or this obsession for the woman the second she opened her eyes and chased away my doubts…I can’t be sure.
Katherine stares at me as I trace a line down to her jaw. Her expression loses its tension as if she’s about to let down her walls again. The tip of my thumb caresses just below her lower lip.
That’s right. Open up to me, sweetheart.
Katherine’s mouth falls open, but it takes her a moment to speak. “My dad used to say I have rocks for brains,” she confesses as if it’s a dirty secret for her to bear.
When the anger surges through my veins, I lower my hand from her face, breaking the spell.
I don’t know much about her life, but I’m very aware of her father’s disappearance.
“Between you and him, there’s only one moron, and it’s no one in this room,” I tell her, managing to squeeze out the words civilly.
Katherine shrugs, and I don’t fail to miss the blossoming of a blush on her cheeks. She sucks in a deep breath as if steadying herself and lifts a hand to her hair.
Although her embarrassment produces the most adorable reaction of twirling her finger around the end of her braid, I’m quick to reassure her.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I return to my seat. “My feelings about my father and how I handle them are ingrained in me. I shouldn’t react that way.”
“Did something happen?” Katherine asks, worrying her lip, which has only recently recovered from being split.
For a second, I fear she’s seen right through me, like some clairvoyant. She’s asking what truly became of Duncan Ward the Third and what part I played in his death. But in the end, it’s not that complicated.
I idly tap her chin, and the motion causes her to release her lip. “He’s dead.”
The woman’s face crumples at this news. “Oh no,” she says, and I can hear the pain in her words. In her mind, I have no doubt she’s looking at an orphan.
“It’s no great loss, Kittie,” I assure her. “He was a disgusting man. The world is better off without him.”
For some reason, this doesn’t soothe the grief on her face. “What did he do?”
“Nothing of consequence.”
Katherine blinks slowly. “You know, you can tell me. I would never judge you for anything.”
If only that were true .
But I settle for something innocent. I retrieve some old memories, blow dust from them, and present them to her, even if I haven’t shared those thoughts with anyone since childhood. “I used to collect bugs in jars. Mostly to study them.”
Even though Katherine hasn’t demonstrated a pension to do so, I still expect her to wrinkle her face in disgust. Naturally, she surprises me by lighting up and grinning at me. “Really? Were you interested in entomology when you were a kid?”
I chuckle despite myself. “Just biology. I wasn’t that smart.”
“Why would you say something like that?” she says, mimicking my chiding tone, but I don’t miss how her cheeks redden at the words.
“Fair point,” I say, losing my smile. “Needless to say, my father didn’t appreciate my scholastic aspirations. He called me a freak for it.”
Katherine flinches as if I pricked her with a needle. “He didn’t.”
I nod once. “The last insect I had…he crushed under his heel. But I’m afraid he was always like that. Image was all that mattered to him, even within the privacy of our estate.”
Crumpling the blanket to her chest, she stares at me with her blue eyes, the whites turning pink as tears fill them. I’m not sure I can stomach seeing her cry again, especially for my sake.
“He’s dead, though,” I’m quick to tell her. I’m perplexed when it doesn’t provide her comfort.
“But I bet you don’t collect bugs anymore,” she points out and tips her head back as if to send any oncoming tears back where they came from before lowering her head again. “I bet there’s a lot of things that he’s taken away from you.”
I hope to tease one of my favorite smiles out of her. “I think the bug collecting isn’t something I miss,” I say, and when she continues to stare at me, I add, “All it gave me was a sense of risk, a dread of losing something I tried so hard to care for and protect.”
Katherine scrunches her face. “I’m sure that came after the bug squashing!”
“I doubt you’d want to talk to me if I had a collection of insects.”
“That’s not true! I collect postcards, and not just fancy ones from fancy places,” she confesses in a rush. I’m grateful that the hint of tears has faded. “I collect used ones from antique stores! The ones that random people have written on. Isn’t that just weird?”
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s coming from her, but I find that idea more endearing than strange.
I lean back against the chair, propping my head up with my palm against my jaw. Whatever stress and anxiety that Paul imbued me with that day has already melted away.
“Not at all,” I reply. “But why? I’m sure some have interesting content, but I’d wager most are fairly basic.”
“Sometimes, I pretend that I’m the person the postcards are written to, and I pretend I’m someone else, with an entirely different life.” Katherine stares down at her lap, her voice softening. “I used to take a bus to the Southside Park, sit on a bench, read them, and make up these stories about myself. I could be someone else. Anyone else.”
I couldn’t understand the pain in her face before. But now, I get it. Her words puncture a hole in me, with something bleeding out from it. Horror courses through me, prompting me to sit up straight. All at once, I consider that the same hopelessness that led me to drive to the gas station that day had not only touched her but might have been in her all along.
What I would give to chase away that pain…
There’s nothing that can be said in the shadow of that realization.
“Since I don’t have an extensive insect collection to charm you with, perhaps you can show me this postcard collection of yours once you’re out of here?”
To my temporary relief, she perks up. “Of course. And maybe one day, you can take me on a tour of this fancy-sounding estate you mentioned.”
The thought of Katherine against the backdrop of my childhood home sends a comforting warmth through me, but I know it’s a bad idea.
If I bring her home, I might not let her leave.
Before I can say anything more, Dana breezes in through the door. “Honey, do you remember the account number to—” I fall into her sights, bringing Dana to a halt. “Hello, Dorian! I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. Are you excited to put an end to these hospital visits?”
There’s an unspoken proposition on Dana’s tongue that we both catch. Katherine and I exchange brief glances; her eyes are bashful and avoidant. But they’re filled with very natural questions. What will we become beyond these depressing, white walls? What could we hope for after meeting in this way? Will we ever see one another again?
The last question isn’t on my mind, but I assume it’s on hers given the curious, if somewhat hopeful glance up through her lashes. Maybe if I was willing to be forward in front of her mother and not consider how my bluntness might throw her off, I’d tell her that she lost the opportunity to be rid of me when she opened her eyes.
But I choose a far more lighthearted direction. “I’m excited to see you up and about in your normal life. Aren’t you?”
This perks her up. She gives me one of those sweet smiles that I could soak up for hours. “I am. I want to see what you look like out in the real world. If it wasn’t for my mom clearly seeing you, I might think you were a figment of my imagination.”
Dana and I both chuckle, but I linger on her sentiment. The idea of her being outside makes me fear she might become vulnerable. Paul, to my resentment, flashes to the forefront of my mind.
If I were conjured up in her imagination, am I a dream? Or will I prove to be a nightmare?