Page 10 of The Same Backward as Forward

I forced my feet to move, bringing me closer to the person whoselittle game of arsonhad cost my sister her life. The authorities already thought there were no survivors. If Toby Hawthorne died, they would be right.

For the first time in my life, I felt like maybe I was capable of killing, like maybe I really was a Rooney.Blood for blood.It wouldn’t have been hard. All it would have taken was a hand over Toby Hawthorne’s mouth and another holding his nose.

In this state, he wouldn’t have been able to fight.

I knelt beside the mattress and glared bullets at the boy who had my sister’s blood on his soft, rich-boy hands. And then I swallowed, blinked back tears, and glanced back at Jackson. “I need some cool water.”

Soon enough, there was a basin of it sitting beside me, though how Jackson had managed running water out here was anyone’s guess. On a nearby table, I spotted a pile of clean cloths and the suitcase of medical supplies. I helped myself to more gauze with one hand and grabbed the cloths with the other, and then I got to work.

I soaked the cloths in cool water and thought,I hate you, Tobias Hawthorne the Second.

I peeled the dressing back from his wounds.I hate you.

I laid the cloths on his burns, and his chest rose with a ragged breath. His eyes never opened, not once as I repeated the process over and over and over again. Not when I unscrewed the top of the silver cream. Not when I applied it to his biceps, his collarbone, the third-degree burns on his chest and stomach.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

My touch was gentle—far gentler than he deserved.

Pain was visible in the muscles of his chest, taut beneath the clean skin surrounding the burns.Good, I wanted to think.He deserves to hurt.But my touch was light as I continued cleaning and dressing his wounds.

And when I was done, I kept vigil. I checked on him, again and again, through the night, watching for any signs of infection.

“Hannah.” Jackson said my name quietly, his voice almost but not quite soft.

“Don’t,” I bit out.Don’t tell me that you’re sorry for my loss. Don’t ask if I’m okay.

Jackson went silent, and an hour later, the fisherman disappeared with the dawn. Left to my own devices, I went to change the dressings, wondering if Toby Hawthorne would consider this turn of events a very dark joke, like everything else.

A little game of arson, I thought viciously.

I peeled back gauze, and a hand flew up to catch my wrist. Toby’s grip was shockingly strong. His lips were moving. He was sayingsomething.

I pried his fingers from mine. Despite myself, I leaned down to hear what he was saying.

“Let.” Even that one word, said in a ragged whisper, was labored. “Let,” he wheezed again.

I thought he was going to tell me to let him go, but he didn’t.

“Let,” he choked out a third time. “Me.” A breath caught in my throat.“Die.”

Fury rose up inside me like a beast with a life of its own. My sister was dead, and he had the gall to tellmeto let him die?

I leaned down to whisper directly in his ear, and then I went back to work, my touch soft, hoping that what I’d said echoed in every nook and cranny of his depraved Hawthorne mind.

You don’t get to die, you bastard.

Chapter 8

I stayed at Jackson’s shack for three days straight. There was nothing for me anywhere else. Changing bandages, pressing pills into my patient’s mouth, taking his vitals—those at least were things I coulddo. As soon as my week was up and the hospital would take me back, I’d leave, but for now, I bided my time.

There was a single piece of paper in the pocket of my scrubs. I folded it and unfolded it a hundred different ways. I’d made my decision: Toby Hawthorne was going to live if I had to drag him from the jaws of death myself. He was going tolivewith what he’d done.

“You should get some sleep.” Jackson tried speaking to me at most twice a day.