Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ELLIE
There’s a banging on my door.
Hard and furious.
Urgent.
It’s like someone’s trying to break in.
At first, I think it’s part of my dream; clear and realistic—just like the sleep-sex, except I can feel the banging vibrating through the walls of my tiny house.
I blink several times, trying to force myself to wake fully, urging the brain-fog to clear when I catch the sound again.
Then I hear his voice. Rasped and ragged. Like he’s gasping for air.
I bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding so hard I can hear my pulse. I throw the covers off my legs before scrambling for my dressing gown.
Bang-bang-bang.
I leap towards the window and open the curtains, trying to peer down to the street below, but I can’t see. I need more leverage.
Bang-bang-bang .
The sash window opens with relative ease—which is odd considering it seems to be jammed every other time I need to open it—and I poke my head out.
It’s him, his hand balled into a fist as he pounds on my front door, clearly not giving any consideration to the neighbours—though I don’t know what time it is.
“Mike? What the hell are you doing?” I yell.
He takes a few moments to realise I’m shouting from an upstairs window. He backs away from the door before craning his neck upwards.
“Kitch—I need to talk to you,” he says. “Can you let me in?”
I want to tell him to leave me alone. I want to tell him to go back to her . But I can’t. There’s something about the way his voice shakes. Something about the urgency and desperation.
He’s distressed.
He’s in need.
He steps back further towards the road, his body illuminated against the streetlights in an eerie glow. An odd shine on his shirt has me squinting, trying to make out what’s covering his chest. Dark patches of colour, contrasting against the white.
Wet and shiny.
I swallow down a wave of nausea.
I think I know what it is—or what it looks like, at least.
“I’ll be right down,” I say, sliding the window closed and rushing down the stairs.
He stumbles in as I open the door, and the full impact of the blood hits me, knocking the air from my lungs.
Splotches of rusty brown cover his shirt, and a faint, metallic smell lingers in the air, filling my mouth as I gasp for air.
“Blood,” I say, gaping at him. “Oh my—Mike, are you bleeding?”
He stares at me for a moment before looking down at his chest. “Me? No, I’m … fine. It’s not my blood, don’t worry.”
His tone is airy, but his eyes are heavy, drooping closed—like he’s exhausted .
“Then whose blood is it?” I say, my voice elevating in both pitch and speed.
“Rochelle’s.”
“Rochelle’s?” I clamp a hand over my mouth as I try to slow my thoughts, picking out the details to make them make sense. Blood, Rochelle, a ruined tuxedo. But I can only conclude one thing. I’m trembling, forcing my legs to keep me upright. “Did you kill Rochelle?”
Mike’s face drains of colour—turning as white as his shirt was at the start of the evening. He shakes his head.
“Oh, no, no, no. Of course, I haven’t. She turned up earlier …
tried to get me to leave with her, took my phone …
I was trying to get away from her and she fell—landed face down on the pavement and …
I couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t get a taxi to take her to A shoulders shaking with near-silent sobs.
I’ve genuinely never seen a man cry before—which sounds odd thinking about it, but my dad never has, nor has Greg, not when I’ve been there. And I’ve never had a proper boyfriend for long enough to have his emotions on display. Not like this. Not like the tears of desperation that Mike is shedding.
I drop to my knees in front of him, rubbing my hand over his thigh, trying to offer any comfort I can .
He takes a laboured breath. “My career will be ruined. They’ll kick me off both teams and that’ll be that. No hockey. Like—what would I even do? How would I—” He sniffs deeply as his head rises, then he pauses. His breath slowing.
“You’re wearing your rings,” he whispers, looking at my left hand.
“Uh, yeah, I am.”
He nods, slow and steady, his gaze focuses on my hand.
“They’re a perfect fit,” I say.
It feels like a dumb thing to say, but he takes hold of my hand, cradles it in his, his own ring brushing against mine.
Together.
“It’s because you’ve got a perfect hand,” he says.
I can feel myself flushing, warm heat rising through me, but then I get a lung-full of bloody-sweat.
“Let me run you a bath, make you a cup of tea—then get you to bed. I think you need to rest. We can talk properly in the morning.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really am. I didn’t mean to drag you into any of this.”
“Shh,” I soothe, giving his thigh another rub. “Let’s get you the tea.”
I stand up and make my way to the kitchen, getting as far as a doorframe when he calls my name.
“Kitch?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you put two sugars in?”