Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve never really cared what anyone thought before.
No, that’s not true—for a time, not too long ago, Raffaele was the only one that mattered, although it was part training and part survival.
But Graham’s hardly spoken since last night, preferring to carry on with Captain Byrne in the bridge or recommend poetry to Tadhg for his girlfriend.
He was gone when I woke up, slipping away whenever I began to approach and even going so far as to ask one of the fishermen about the type of clouds overhead.
Ashore in Boscastle, a tiny coastal village in the south of England, Orla lured us both into tight hugs and tried to sneak Graham some money. He tucked it back into her cardigan when she wasn’t looking.
Now I can’t even enjoy the rushing current of the river beside us or the stone cottages with wonky, moss-speckled roofs because I’m too busy sending daggers into Graham’s shoulder blades.
It’s gloomy out, grey sky swollen with rain, and I refuse to give his jacket back despite the icy wind howling through our clothes.
If he’s going to ignore me, he gets to be cold.
Following Captain Byrne’s directions exactly, we trudge into the town center, both of us ready for a hot meal.
Villagers and tourists might stare when we pass, but I don’t notice or blame them. I know I look how I feel—frustrated and volatile, like a human storm cloud—although I’m pretty sure my partner could still pass for a Calvin Klein model on holiday. Yet another thing to sour my mood.
Right as Captain Byrne said, The Riverside sits at the heart of Boscastle, a large, centuries-old stone building perched beside the River Valency. It’s nearly empty when the door announces our presence, presumably because the sun’s barely risen and most would consider it an odd time to drink.
I say most because I could really use a strong whiskey and a soft pillow right about now.
A girl, copper ringlets pulled atop her head and thick clusters of freckles across pink cheeks, greets us with a dimply grin and a wave. “Alright?” she says, which I take to mean as a hello.
Graham’s opening his mouth to grab the lead, and that brewing anger licks up my spine and forces me to step in front of him.
“Good morning,” I reply quickly, “do you possibly have a phone I could use? We’re in a bit of a bind and have lost our luggage—it’ll be a quick call.”
The girl replies in such a thick Cornish accent that I’m left blinking, stunned, as she pulls out her cell phone and unlocks it for me.
I suppose that means yes. Graham’s frowning at my profile the entire time.
My turn to keep him in the dark. I open the door and march back outside, a finger held to the girl as if to say, one moment.
I walk a little and stop next to the river. My fingers dial the number I memorized without looking, my eyes studying the dark green hillside and the old bridge outside the inn as it rings.
“What?” the voice grunts.
“We need to talk.”