Page 30 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

Then person who looks back at me then—it’s Gina. From fifteen years ago, before they took her mind, before this place became her one and only reality; anything like a normal life made impossible.

“Wouldn’t you?” she asks.

I blink. Fifteen years of this. A mind that comes and goes, that’s not yours, not since they took it. But I couldn’t… can’t. She’s holding my gaze.

I nod to her.

Relief flits across her expression before the softness, the emptiness, returns.

I should untangle myself from this, should never have come. I still can leave her to live out another fifteen years, another thirty. Fifty.

I don’t. And I’ll have however long I’ve yet to live to wonder if I did the right thing.

***

Needler

I can’t wait for her any longer.

Just when I want her to break into my place, to surprise me at ungodly hours of the night, to draw me to her, she stops. Practically vanishes. I follow the ones I suspect will soon have her interest more than she follows them.

I’ve given her space, waited. But I can’t bear it any longer. I’ve come to check on her.

Apparently, I’m not the only one.

He paces in front of her cabin, movements full of rigid anxiety, head shaking as he murmurs worry to himself.

I stop at the edge of the treeline. “James?” I take a guess at his identity.

Paige’s neighbour, the one who came by that night I had her tied to a chair.

I haven’t been able to find out anything about him by asking around town, though everyone knows him.

It appears he’s merely another orphan, one of the few male ones left on this island.

He jumps to a stop, his wide, frightened eyes find me, an expression too young for the lanky man’s body he inhabits. His brown hair is cut close and without great care, almost to his scalp.

“I’m here to see Miss Paige!” he stammers out, like theres a chance I'll think he might be here to commit a crime instead.

I take a step forward, but keep my distance. “She’s not letting you in?” I ask calmly.

“She swore at me! She’s not in a good way, no, no…” He sounds like he might be about to cry.

I nod, and suggest, “I’ll make sure she’s feeling alright, okay? You can go…”

“No, I’ve got to check on her!” he insists, shifting urgently from foot to foot.

I frown. “What do you mean, you have to?”

James shakes his head, and drifts away from the cabin, back in the direction of his own place.

“Didn’t mean anything. She’s just asleep.

Sick! That’s it…” Before I can say anything else, he’s crunching through the underbrush, disappearing into the trees.

I frown after him, waiting for the noises to fade. Odd.

I step up to her door. After that encounter, I’m ever more determined to set eyes on Paige and get some answers. Or at least some reassurance.

So, when the call that comes through her closed front door is a muffled order to go away, I look at the dimming sky, and then back at the door.

And I kick it open.

The first thing I notice is that the place is an utter mess.

The second thing is Paige, buried somewhere among it.

I latch the door behind me, though it hangs loosely enough that I drop my bag in front of it to hold it properly closed.

Paige hasn’t gotten up. She’s beside the bed, wrapped in a heavy duvet against a cold nearly as intense inside as it is outside.

The fireplace is empty and dead. Loose, yellowed papers are strewn around the room, over furniture, under it, covering the floor.

The greatest accumulation is in a loose circle around her.

“I said go away,” Paige snipes, struggling to stand, tripping over her blanket as she does. “Not break down my door.”

I ignore her, crossing the room. “What the hell happened here? Where’ve you been?

” I pick up one of the papers. At first, it makes no sense in the dim light, just columns of names, dates, some kind of serial number.

Then I squint at it, the old, yellowed colour, and the others, similarly strewn about.

“These are records from the asylum. Pastryachi’s.

” I turn, taking in the sheer amount, and frown. “ All of them.”

“So? He wasn’t using them,” Paige mutters, falling onto the couch, crumpling a folio underneath her.

I stand in front of her, staring her down until she finally lifts her chin.

Her eyes are red, bloodshot, and her eyelids puffy.

But… “You’re not drunk,” I conclude. Paige turns away, scoffing.

I catch her chin, leaning down, making her look at me.

“When was the last time you slept?” Then I look where my fingers touch her chin. “You’re freezing.”

I straighten, shed my heavy coat and lay it over her. Then turn to the fireplace, and the wood dumped beside it. Heat first, I decide. Then deal with the rest.

“Tristan, just go,” Paige groans, shaking her head, making a half-hearted effort at dislodging my coat from her pile. Her voice breaks a little as she adds, “I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”

I ignore her. Her words would hurt if I believed them, if I didn’t know what it was like to want to hurt instead of being hurt.

She says nothing else as I put my back to her, stacking some pine sticks over the crumpled newspaper on the fire grate, getting a flame going before adding more, larger pieces.

The flame is going strong when I stand, going to close the bathroom door, sealing the kitchen window to keep the fast-building heat from seeping out.

“I take it you’ve eaten even less recently than you’ve slept,” I say.

“I’m not hungry,” is the answer I get back, and dutifully ignore.

I quickly tidy her kitchenette up enough to find a pot and some canned soup. I get it warming, stirring as I half-turn back towards Paige.

She looks so… diminished, sitting there tucked into the corner of the couch.

There’s some colour coming back to her cheeks with the roaring fire, but her eyes are blank, lost, the bags under them heavy.

“Are you going to tell me what’s got you starving yourself and freezing half to death surrounded by… ” I gesture at the room, “this?”

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, sinking lower into her duvet.

“Oh, sure, I can see that.”

She glares at me. “Nothing you would understand,” she bites out.

“Try me.”

Paige turns her face away, pushes the duvet and my coat away, and emerges in an old, loose shirt and thin pyjama pants as she stands up.

Her hair is in a tangled, floppy ponytail; her steps are momentarily unsteady as she walks to the middle of the room, turning for the front door.

“Fine! If you won’t leave me the fuck alone, I’m going… ”

“You take one step out of that door, Paige, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder to drag you back in here to force-feed you this soup.”

That stops her, but it doesn’t make her any happier. She sits back down. I turn the stovetop off, pour the soup into a bowl and sit across from her on the ottoman. I hold the bowl and say, “Eat this. Then tell me why I wouldn’t understand.”

Paige glares at me like she wants to throw it in my face, but perhaps seeing how that will end, she takes it and starts to eat.

I stand and busy myself with gathering the paper into a pile, then cleaning what’s underneath.

I’ve nearly got it to a manageable level when she puts the bowl down.

She didn’t finish it, but it’ll have to do.

“So?” I demand. “What is it? I can assume you’re not feeling guilty about Mr Filan.

So what? Is it something from the doctor? Your sister? Work?”

“What would you know about any of that?”

I’m standing between her and the fire, and say softly, “I had a sister. Just like you.”

“But not just like me.” Paige stands, staring me down. I know what she’s going to say before the words leave her mouth. “You killed yours.”

Her lips close, and I almost see her regret it, but she doesn’t take it back.

“I did,” I say, two flat and emotionless words into the all-encompassing silence that follows her accusation. “You would have too.”

The fire returns to her eyes, colour blooming in her cheeks. “I’d never have done what you did!”

“You think you wouldn’t have?” I ask, and the quiet certainty of my voice draws her back, cuts off whatever sharp thing she was about to spit out.

“Imagine if your sister had survived, only to turn into a monster because of the things that were done to her. Not a monster like you or me. But something worse. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to do it, like I couldn’t then.

Maybe you'd do it when you should have, before the bodies piled up and the blood ran. Or maybe you’d have acted to save someone other than yourself!

" My last shout is fading when I shrug, anything but casual. "Or maybe not."

Paige stares back at me, and I see her throat bob.

Her eyes turn glassy, chest seeming to cave in on itself.

The fight leaves her, hands falling lax, shoulders slumping.

The first tears fall as she bites out the words, sobs them, “They botched it. Her . They…” Hands coming to her face, over her mouth, she takes a shuddering breath.

“She died because they didn’t care… they got it wrong.

” Face hidden from me, her shoulders shake with a racking sob.

“She died for a mistake. And they just… moved onto the next one. Like she didn’t matter.

Like none of it mattered. ” If any more words come, they’re illegible through her hands, her tears.

I’m with her then, folding her in my arms. I feel her lean into me, heavy with exhaustion and spent anger. Her body shaking. I hold her tight until I feel the emotions drain from her, her body going still, her head heavy on my chest, which is wet with her tears.

“You need sleep,” I say softly against the top of her head.

She makes a soft noise, not quite a protest, and I scoop her into my arms, carrying her to the bed as she wraps her arms around my neck. I throw the mess off the bed, and tuck the blanket all around her.

Her face turns into the pillow slightly, eyes closed.

I resist the urge to stroke her cheek, turning back to the room.

I clean up the rest of the space quietly, and she doesn’t stir.

After checking once more that she’s still asleep, I go to my bag, where I left it against the door.

Inside are my own spoils, my stash of wadded money, gems and jewellery courtesy of Tregam.

It doesn’t take long to find hers, in a loose floorboard under the couch.

I look down on her takings—fancy watches; rings; old, small antiques.

The hood ornament of an old Mustang. That one I guess, is courtesy of Mr Filan.

Then, I add my riches to hers. I’d intended to give it to her tonight, to plead with her to leave this island behind.

But now, seeing her the way she was… I know she won’t, that she can’t.

Not until she’s done here. I close her box and replace the rug over the floorboard.

When she’s ready to leave, it’ll all be there.

I crouch by the side of the bed, and brush the hair off Paige’s sleeping face, her eyelids fluttering, failing to open.

“I didn’t mean it,” she murmurs. “You did the right thing, with the Cocooner.” She whispers the name my sister took like it could summon her if she says it too loudly.

“I don’t know if I could’ve been that strong. ”

I don’t know either. I’m glad she never has to find out.

“You’re strong, Paige,” I say softly. “I’ll leave you to get some rest…”

“No,” she murmurs, reaching out a blind hand. I let her find my fingers. “Stay.”

A small smile lifts the corner of my mouth. I slide down, sitting against the side of her bed. My head rests back against the edge of the mattress, my hand still held loosely my hers. “Alright. I’ll stay.” Right here, if need be.

“Why?” she breathes out the soft words, barely lucid with them, “Why are you here for me…”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’m broken. There’s no… fixing me,” her words muffle more as she shifts, falling further into sleep. My hand slips free of hers as her fingers soften.

I tilt my head, looking at her peaceful face as she says no more.

“I’d never want to fix you…” She doesn’t hear my next words, doesn’t feel my fingers on her cheek.

“…never try to fix what I love.” Not anymore.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that trying to change others is futile.

You’ve got to accept them. Or let go of your love for them.

My words are out now, their weight turned pleasant. I let my own eyelids close then, whispering, “And I’m broken, too.”