CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The drive back to the funeral home was tense and awkward, as one would expect, with all three of us bloodied and battered, looking like we'd all gotten into a fight and lost miserably. The silence between us was so thick and heavy that I was afraid it might choke the life out of me.
Ike had chosen to lie in the back of the hearse, muttering something about having a headache and needing to close his eyes, but truthfully, I thought it had more to do with him not wanting to sit next to me and less to do with his health.
So, I sat in the driver's seat with Shawn at my side, just as it’d been for most of our lives, but not once had he ever been so quiet. Every now and then, I would shoot a sideways glance across the cab, trying to catch his eye, but he made a show of keeping his glare out the window.
Luckily, Seint Manor in Hollow Cove wasn't far from the funeral home, even if the time in that hearse seemed to drag on for an eternity, and once we arrived, we entered the house like war-wounded soldiers and went our separate ways without uttering a single word to each other.
I walked down the hallway, my head hung low as I absent-mindedly tossed my mask onto a console table holding a lamp and box of tissues.
I was about to turn away to find our first aid kit when I stopped to stare at the black rubber, lying haphazardly against the base of the lamp, the cone of light glinting off the plastic lenses.
It felt so natural to leave it there in the moment, in the same way one might drop a set of keys or some loose change from a pocket.
And although I understood that my brothers would unlikely ever be okay with what I'd spent the last few years of my life doing for Gerald Crowley, I couldn't ignore how easily I'd settled into this sense of ease and comfort just from knowing that they knew.
My gaze lingered for another moment, as I relished how good it felt to no longer have to hide and lie, and I actually smiled at the relief that swept over me like a calming wave against the shore.
But the moment was fleeting as the movement shot my face with a dose of pain from the cut I’d nearly allowed myself to forget, and I released the breath in my lungs before setting out to find that first aid kit, leaving the mask to lie on that table like it was nothing more than a set of keys or loose change.
***
The last time I’d needed stitches, Analise had done the honors with care.
We had talked. We flirted and danced along the line between what we were and shouldn't be. She touched me, and I pushed her away, and it occurred to me now that Gerald had likely known about that too.
I wished she were here to stitch me up now. In this house, away from Gerald's watchful eyes. Away from a life of crime and murder, to hide within this sanctuary of peaceful death.
I would've let her touch me here.
I would've touched her back, and nobody would've been able to stop us.
Not Gerald or Virginia.
Not Benjamin.
Her husband.
For better or worse, that was what that sick fuck was to her now, and God, it took everything in my power not to push my fist through the mirror I stood before.
There was nothing for me to do, nothing I could do, except to clean myself up and try to piece together the jagged lines etched into my face …
all caused by my inability to keep my hands to myself.
It was worth it though, I told myself, knowing it was the truth. Because if it hadn’t happened, I’d never have known that I’d found her.
Anna.
My Anna.
And with that, I managed a sad smile and got to work on wiping the blood from my face. Then, after cleaning myself up, I saw just what a number Gerald had done on me, and though I wished I didn’t have to, I began to sew my face, wincing a little more with every stitch.
Some time went by, and the door opened. Shawn walked into the bathroom, immediately wrinkling his nose with disgust and turning away with a groan.
"You could've locked the damn door," he barked.
He's still angry, I noted. But of course he is. How else do I want him to act? I’m a fucking murderer—did I think he’d be happy about that?
"Sorry," I muttered. "I wasn't thinking about privacy while I was bleeding all over the place."
He turned to look at me again, his eyes meeting mine in the medicine cabinet mirror.
Yes, there was no doubt that he was still angry.
I suspected he would be for a long time.
But he also had questions—I saw them etched in the creases between his brows—and I figured the sooner he asked them, the better off we'd be.
He took a step into the small powder room and shut the door behind him. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his back to the door with a thunk of his head.
“How the fuck did this happen, Bram?" he asked, helplessness heavy in his tone.
With a hiss, I pierced the delicate skin beside my eye and threaded the needle through as I said, "Well, Gerald's a piece of shit and thought I needed to be punished because his wife's daughter—"
"I'm not talking about your face, jackass," he interrupted with a shout. "I want to know everything."
I shook my head as my heart sank toward the pit of my stomach. “No, you don’t, Shawn.”
“Yes, I do!” he fired at me, unleashing his fury.
“Fucking hell, Bram. We’ve been worried about you.
Don’t you know that? We’ve been scared shitless, and as it turns out, we had every fucking right to be.
And now I want you to start explaining. I want you to tell me so I can try to understand.
Please. Help me to understand how the hell you got wrapped up in this bullshit. ”
I pulled the needle taut, tightening the stitch, then glanced at him to see the pain etched clearly into the lines creasing his forehead. I knew he felt betrayed—I understood why—but, God, the depth of his agony was immense, and it pinched at something deep within my chest.
We'd been best friends—inseparable—for decades. We did everything together, and we had gone through Hell, doing it.
I'd had the time to get used to being on my own. The wedge these last couple of years had driven between us was something I grew accustomed to, but it was new for Shawn. He didn’t even know it was there.
He suspected it, of course, but the proof had been elusive.
But now he knew, and it was crushing him.
That was on me.
I hated myself for it.
With a purse of my lips and a nod of my head, I conceded and said, “Okay. Where do you want me to start?”
He blew out a tremulous breath and shrugged his shoulders high toward his ears. "I dunno. Uh … what the fuck happened to you? Why did it happen? And why the hell haven't you told us anything? Why haven't you told me?"
I released another sigh, about to begin from the beginning, when my hand slipped and the point of the needle dug into the cut.
"Fuck!” I cried through the pain and frustration.
The wound stung, and the blood began to bubble and ooze once again as I let the needle hang from my face while I grabbed the roll of paper towels and wiped the blood from my hands.
"Oh, for crying out loud," Shawn murmured with resignation, closing the distance between us. "Let me do it."
I turned from his grasp and shook my head. "You don't have to do anything."
"Shut your mouth and let me do it before you poke your fucking eye out."
I sighed, brushing my stubborn pride to the side, and relented with a nod.
We moved from the powder room to the kitchen table, where Shawn laid out the paper towels, antiseptic, needle and thread, and a first aid kit.
He had me sit down in front of him and pulled a chair as close as possible, between my spread knees, and set out to stitch my face up with a lot more care and precision than I had offered myself.
And I realized Gerald was right.
Shawn was an excellent candidate to handle the nursing side of the business. He was a caregiver; he was gentle. And Gerald had known that without me saying anything, which only meant …
He's been watching them.
But how?
Without moving my head, I glanced around the kitchen, wondering for the first time if he had the place bugged or if he'd simply done his research.
And for how long?
"We've been through a lot of shit, Bram," Shawn finally said, breaking the silence between us as he carefully stitched up my face.
"I've known you since I was five years old.
Five. And I've always trusted you. No matter what, I've always trusted you.
I've never questioned you, never … second-guessed one of your fucked-up plans. "
"See, that was your first mistake," I jabbed, a feeble attempt at a teasing joke.
"Yeah, but you know what?” His blue eyes met mine, and I saw in them a deep sincerity that crushed hard against my soul.
“You've never steered me wrong yet. As long as I've been with you, as long as I've listened to you, I've always been safe.
Maybe a little fucked up, maybe a little lost, but I've been okay, and considering the shit we've been through, I can settle for okay.
Okay is a lot better than the alternative. "
I blinked slowly, letting his words sink in, before asking, "What's your point?"
"My point is," he went on, creating another stitch and working his way down my cheek, "if you had come to me when this shit started, I might not have understood immediately, but I would've tried. I would've listened."
"No, Shawn," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
"You would've listened to what I had to say, and you would've driven my ass to the fucking cops.
That's what you would've done. And then that son of a bitch would've gotten his hands on you and Ike, and I wouldn't have been able to do a fucking thing about it from prison. He would’ve killed both of you—or worse—and I would’ve had to live with that guilt for the rest of my miserable life. "
"So, that's really what this was all about? Keeping us protected?"