Page 92 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“I can drive myself?—”

“No.” Her tone is firm. “You’re in no condition to drive. We’ll take you.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

RONAN

The rainstill hasn’t let up by the time I pull onto Cedar Street. It runs in thin rivulets down the windshield, distorting the houses beyond the glass. My grip tightens on the wheel, and dried blood cracks across my knuckles as I flex my fingers. Pain flares, shooting up my hands and into my wrists.

Dan’s blood.Myblood.

The adrenaline is fading now, leaving behind a tremor in my hands that won’t stop. My shirt is soaked through, clinging to my skin, rain and sweat mixed with blood that’s not all mine. Every time I blink, I see it … Lily’s head snapping back, blood spraying across her face, the sound of Dan’s fist connecting.

I should feel something about what I did to him.

Regret. Satisfaction. Fear for the consequences, even. But I don’t care about anything other than the way she swayed on her feet, and the shock in her eyes.

Is she okay? Did someone take her to the hospital? Dan hit her hard.

My stomach lurches, bile rising and burning my throat like acid.

I left her there, bleeding, surrounded by people who saw me lose control.

I force myself to move, stepping out of the car and onto the drive. My boots scuff against the ground as I slam the door. For a second I stand there while the rain falls, soaking what’s left of me that isn’t already drenched.

My hands are throbbing. When I look down at them, the skin is split in multiple places, swelling already setting in. My right hand is worse. Two knuckles are still bleeding. I rub my left hand down my face, smearing blood into my skin.

I need to prepare for the inevitable knock on the door. The police are going to turn up eventually.

A door creaks open nearby, and I turn my head to see Tom standing on his porch, coffee mug in one hand, eyeing the sky as though the storm clouds are a personal insult.

His gaze moves to me, dipping to my hands and pausing on the blood streaking my shirt and arms. I can hear his sigh from where I’m standing, a deep exhale through his nose as though he’s already deciding how this conversation is going to go.

“You planning on letting those knuckles get worse, or do you want to clean them?”

My first instinct is to ignore him, go inside, lock the door, and let the silence eat me alive until it’s just another scar under my skin. But then I think about Lily’s face, and the way she looked at me after Dan’s fist hit her. The shock in her eyes, the blood on her lip, the moment of stillness before I let the monster inside me loose.

Tom is still watching me, waiting for an answer.

“I’ve got a first aid kit inside,” he says, as though we’re discussing the weather. “And you look like you could use some coffee while we sort out those cuts.”

I hesitate, torn between wanting to hide and not wanting to be alone when the police show up.

“You know Beverly’s already got her binoculars trained on us.” His voice is dry. “Do you really want an audience for whatever this is?”

That finds it’s mark. I absolutelydon’twant an audience. So, I follow him inside.

The warmth hits me immediately, a wall of heat that makes my cold skin prickle. The house smells of coffee and old wood. It feels lived in, the kind of place that doesn’t change much, no matter what storms rage outside. Photographs line the hallway. Tom with a woman who must be his wife, family gatherings, grandkids. A life built over decades.

Everything the house I’m living in isn’t.

He moves toward the kitchen, leaving me to decide whether to follow. I do, dripping water onto his hardwood floors.

“Sit.” He gestures toward a chair at the kitchen table before disappearing down the hall.

I sink into it, my body grateful for the support. My hands won’t stop shaking, and I press them flat against the table. When Tom returns, he’s holding a metal box with a red cross on the lid, and a towel.

“Dry off first. You’re dripping everywhere.”