Page 95 of Priestly Sins
“Baby.”
She turns and her mottled face meets mine. Her eyes are swollen from crying. Her body shakes as her adrenaline bottoms out, surely leaving her overwhelmed and exhausted.
Fresh blood hits the floor as she trembles.
“What the fuck?”
“My hand…” She looks down as if she hasn’t noticed before. “My fingers…”
Her palm is sliced in multiple places. Her fingers almost severed.
“I… I grabbed the knife with both hands. That was stupid.” Her eyes go wide and the laugh that escapes her has no humor. “I didn’t know.”
“Baby, we need to get you to the hospital. But I need to clean this mess up. I would never normally ask you to wait, but this” —I sweep my hand to the horror scene in our home— “isn’t normal. Can you stand it for a little while? I know I’m an ass for asking.”
“I want to lie down.”
“Sorry, but can’t allow that, sweetheart. Potential concussion.” My eyes slide to her temple and I lean in and as gently as possible brush my lips over the forming bruise. “Going to get you some ice. Will do what I can here and then we’ll get you fixed up.”
I sit her at the kitchen table, ziptop bag of ice pressed to her face, her left hand in another. She hisses as both touch her skin.
“Will be as fast as I can, love.”
On autopilot, I drag the zipped sleeping bag out of the living room, down the hall and into the garage. I move to the stone firepit in the center of our courtyard. This is not what I had in mind when I built it, but options are limited and leaving evidence isn’t one of them. I fold the bag as best I can, add lighter fluid, and step back when I flip the burner on.
The smell of the bag rises and falls with the wind outside and singes my nostrils. It will get worse before it gets better and the cleanup will be a job, but right now I don’t care. I toss his cell into the fire along with his wallet. Watching the flames lick up the pyre provides my first exhale of the day.
I return to the house, noting the rental car I saw upon my return. That needs to be dumped too.
I drag Sirona into the shower. I wish I had time to show her my admiration, but her hand looks bad and we’ve waited long enough. She’s got blood crusted in her hair and her skin is coated with it. I wash her gently but quickly and wrap her in a towel before finishing on my own body. When the water runs clear, I step out.
“Hagrid, come,” I call and wait for our dog to lope into our room. His typical enthusiasm is tamped down and his gate seems off. He jumps onto our bed and rests his head on Sirona’s lap. She looks down and strokes him.
“You’re a good boy, Hagrid. Thank you for protecting me today.”
Her petting uncovers a new scab that causes him to whimper.
My list gets longer and longer.
After dressing both of us, I call Killian.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Was going to ask the same.”
“Clara and I are watchingMoana. Again.”
His tone tells me he’ll be okay and that my daughter is in no danger.
“Taking Sirona to the hospital. Her hand is wrecked. House isn’t clean. Hagrid is injured, and Staunchley is currently roasting in the courtyard. I’ll keep you posted, but please keep Clara from this war zone until I get back to you. That work?”
“Sure thing, lad.”
Forty-Four
We drive in silence to Galway, Sirona and me, in Staunchley’s rental car. Weird choice for most, but we can’t leave it at our house—the last place he drove it—and I can’t disable the GPS without tipping off the leasing company. They’ll ping it eventually. Metropolitan hospital is as good a place as any for a man to go missing.
It’s an eerily peaceful silence, but there’s something under the surface that is simmering. It could be my guilt at her mother’s death. Might definitely be that I brought a threat to our doorstep. It may also be that she killed a man and she may not want to be that person or be in a relationship with someone who could—and has—done that. When the simmering ends, I’m afraid of the boiling explosion.