Page 21 of The Same Backward as Forward

“Oddly enough, Idotrust you. I must be a masochist that way.” There was a long silence and then: “Why three hundred miles?”

Honesty came more easily to me than it should have: “There are people who want you dead, and right now, all of them think you already are.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who those people are or why they want to hasten my tragic and inevitable demise?”

The tears were still coming from his eyes, a single drop at a time. It had to be the pain.

I went for the medication. “Have youmetyou?” I asked bluntly. I checked the log I’d had Jackson keeping to make sure I’d grabbed the right medication. The risks of an overdose were lower for this one, so I slipped out two extra pills.

One after another, he took them, his lips brushing the very tips of my fingers. I tried to look anywhere but at my hand and his mouth and the place where they met. On the floor beside themattress, I saw a piece of paper with writing on it. I bent to get a better look.

Two words were written in oversized, uneven chicken-scratch on the page:bourbonandlemons.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Pain was rolling off him in waves, but that didn’t stop him from smirking. “My grocery list.” He lifted his right hand off the bed just enough to make a little waving motion. “Hop to it.”

Clearly, hewantedme to murder him. “I’m not buying you bourbon. Or lemons.”

Why the hell did he want lemons?

“You know what they say,” he murmured, “about making lemonade.” He was hurting, but there was something more than pain in his voice, a deliberate, teasingsomethingdancing lockstep with agony in his tone.

I stayed with him and waited until the pain meds took effect before pulling back to the table, where I tore a piece of paper out of the notebook for myself and started folding. Hours passed. Harry was barely moving and wasn’t talking, but he was conscious.

It was only when we heard Jackson’s footsteps outside that my patient spoke again.

“I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end.” There was something almost musical in Harry’s tone, something dark.“I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.”

Something told me those words weren’t his. “I don’t understand,” I said.

Iheardhis next breath. “I would wager, my little liar, that you do.”

Chapter 17

I managed to hold out for a few days before looking up the words Harry had said. It was a poem—an old one. The poet’s name was William Blake. The poem was about vengeance. I read it from beginning to end probably a dozen times, and true to Harry’s prediction, I understood it.

I felt every single word of it.

The title of the poem was “A Poison Tree.”

After my shift that night, I hit the grocery store. Since I wasn’t planning to buy any medical supplies, I didn’t bother with the two-bus, three-mile-hike routine and just went to the store closest to the hospital instead. It wasn’t until I got in line to check out that I realized I was being watched.

A man stepped into line behind me. He wore jeans that looked too new and a plain T-shirt that fit him like he was more used to wearing suits. I could feel him studying me—not like a book but like something under a microscope.

I wondered if he worked for Tobias Hawthorne, if he was one of the infamous fixers—and if so, why he was still here. Or maybehe was a reporter who’d stuck around after the story had begun to grow cold, hoping for a different angle.

Either way, I refused to let on that I’d noticed him watching me. He waited until the cashier began ringing up my groceries to speak. “I hear you’re a Rooney.”

I bagged my own food, not even looking at him. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

I didn’t make the hike up to Jackson’s until I was sure that I hadn’t been followed back to my apartment, and when I did go—checking over my shoulder every ten steps across the rocks—I didn’t say a word about the man at the store. I just wordlessly started unpacking the groceries.

“Where are my lemons?” Harry spoke from the mattress.

Jackson slid in beside me. “Where’s the bourbon?” he asked, his voice low.

I gave a slight shake of my head. I hadn’t bought bourbon.