Page 70 of Blade

I see the round table with two chairs where I sat across from Emile after he joined us for dinner.

The night when there were three settings at Dawn’s table, and my program playing on the TV. Orange soda and stir-fry. The linen place mats and crystal glasses.

“Emile is joining us for dinner.”

I remember thinking the same thought. That I hated Emile after what he’d done to Kayla. How he’d made us feel that night—like we were worthless. Like no one would believe us because we’d been in the field. The Jack Daniel’s and boys in the black van.

And then Jolene—my God—I see him standing in the doorway of the Orphans’ room at Avery Hall. I feel the explosion on the side of my head and the pain that radiated into my skull, and the rough carpet beneath my body as I lay there, helpless, listening to the sound of a hand striking Jolene’s soft face.

Emile had done that. He’d called Jolene’s parents, then sent us to the clinic, knowing we would be turned away. Hemusthave known. He was buying time for Jolene’s father to come and get her.

I look at the place where that table once was. I can see Emile clear as day.

“Want a beer?”

He’d brought me here after dinner, instead of taking me back to Avery Hall. He’d offered me a beer, and then brushed my shoulder with his arm as he walked past me to the refrigerator.

“Or do you want to go home?”

I didn’t have a home anymore.

I hated him. But I hear the word in my head. My answer that night.

“No.”

And then, “What do you need?” he asked. I didn’t know the answer. But he did.

A burst of cold air hits me from behind. Then the voice explodes in my head, just like the fist that struck me the night Jolene left.

“Ana!” Dr. Westin says with enthusiastic surprise. I turn to see him in his boots and parka, a bundle of wood in his arms. “What are you doing here?”

I stumble with an explanation. “I went to see Dawn, and then ...”

He walks to the fireplace and sets the wood in a metal stand. There’s a smile on his face as he pulls off his parka and hangs it on a hook by a back door.

“Ah,” he says. “Of course. This place holds your history. Or part of it, anyway.”

I don’t answer. He was a part of that history. He still is—not only working with Dawn but also living on her property.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask. Emile moved into a condo complex soon after I left. I wonder if Westin has been here since then, but he says it’s more recent.

“I scaled back last year—and this place was renovated, no one using it,” he explains, walking to the stove, turning on a kettle. “I don’t need much. And I love the view, being on the mountain.”

He gets two mugs from a cupboard and sets them on the counter. Reaches for tea bags like all of this is perfectly normal.

Like he always did. And I suddenly remember what Kayla told me not two hours ago.

“I saw her,” I tell him.

He turns, curious. “Dawn? Yes—you’ve said.”

“No,” I continue. “Kayla Johnson.”

His arms cross, and his head bobs like he finds this of interest, but not alarming.

“Was she helpful?”

“Very.”