Page 10

October 7

New York City

C lara burst into the room.

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

With a painful spin, Miles faced the perpetual thorn in his side. Clara Gautreau stood in the closet doorway with both hands over her mouth.

Miles stepped away from the mirror and snatched up his shirt. Her striking cerulean eyes were wide with shock, and both hands covered her pouty lips.

Miles wasn’t prone to outbursts, but between his privacy being violated and his usual irritation at her presence, he snapped.

“Jesus, Clara! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” A mischievous grin diluted her apology.

“You didn’t scare me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Why are you in my home?”

“Well, I planned on stealing your underwear, but—just come, sit.”

Clara led him to the end of the bed and held his elbow as she eased him to the mattress. Then, she hurried out of the room.

“Where are your Ziplocks?” she called from the kitchen.

Miles leaned back gingerly on his elbows. “Top drawer, by the stove.”

Miles heard her bustling about the kitchen. Clara returned with two plastic bags of ice.

“Here.” She shook two ibuprofen into his palm.

He pushed her hand away. “In the medicine cabinet, bottom shelf. Tylenol with codeine.”

Clara fetched the prescription. Eying the glass of bourbon still in his hand, she said, “Should you be mixing these with alcohol?”

Miles gave her a flat look, shook two tablets straight from the amber bottle into his mouth, and chased it with the drink. “It’s fine.”

“Now, lie back.”

He obeyed, and she set the makeshift ice packs on his body—one on his aching ribs, the other over the bleeding knot on his head. The concern in her eyes had him tensing. Miles couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of him. As a teenager, he had once gone a month with an untreated broken wrist. This felt all wrong.

“Thanks. You can go.”

Clara ignored his tone. “You need to go to the hospital. Head injuries are no joke.”

An image flashed in his brain—a white room, stale air, he and Miller flanking the bed, each twin holding a weak hand: I hate to leave you . Miles sat up, fighting a wave of dizziness that had him gagging.

“Clara, go.”

“Miles—” she started to protest.

“Get out of my house.” His tone brooked no argument.

“Fine. I’ll say it now in case you’re dead in the morning. You’re a stubborn jackass.”

Miles sank back on the mattress, his brain sloshing around in his skull. “Noted.”

He didn’t hear her leave; Miles was adrift on a sea of memories merging and fracturing. Laughter rattled in his head, then faded. A scent of baking bread. Chug Ugentti puffing a cigar. His foster father cracking open a can of beer. He pondered if he was dying. That wouldn’t be so bad. The pain would stop—all of it. And besides, death was only hard on the people left behind, and he was so fucking tired of being on that end of the deal. Miles could simply sleep.