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“Which means I was talking to you when he was killed.” Clark’s words are choppy, like he’s working out the pieces as he speaks. “Where is Stella—”
“Don’t worry about her,” Lochlan quickly interjects. “She left early after having too much to drink, remember? She came over to us to say bye.” I did?
I don’t remember. Can’t remember. My mind is less of a blur and more of a black hole. I try to think back to the last thing I did before going to bed, but it’s like fighting a current, and I get sucked under every time I’m close to something tangible.
I notice a huddle of clothing I don’t recognize on the floor by my bed. I scamper over, seeing it’s a men’s suit jacket. I turn it over in my hands, and a white pocket square jumps out at me. I pull it out and unfold it. In horror, I read three embroidered initials.
Shortly after I find the monogrammed handkerchief, I hear the front door shut and Lochlan comes knocking on mine. He finds me on the ground, the jacket in my lap. My mind feels like it’s floating inside an abyss.
I’m unmoving as he takes the jacket from me, stuffing it in a garbage bag. He tucks a loc behind my ear and cradles my face between his hands. There’s nothing but concern in his blue eyes and for some reason, that makes me even more scared. He knows what I’ve done.
“JBM,” I say hoarsely. “Jeffery Bartholomew Mauldin. I killed him, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t kill him,” he says with finality.
I so badly want to believe him.
“But he’s dead, isn’t he?” I swallow hard.
He gently caresses my cheek with his thumb. It’s too soothing. More than I deserve. “We need to get you in the shower now. Okay, réalta?”
Even if I had the emotional energy to fight, I don’t have the physical energy. Every part of me, inside and out, feels drained. Bone-tired. Vomiting felt like running a marathon. My eyelids are so heavy. I just want to . . . sleep.
“You gotta stay awake just a little longer.” Lochlan softly taps my cheek, and my eyes flutter open.
“I’m so tired,” I drawl.
Sorrow—or is it pity?—shades his features, his brows knitting together. “I know, pretty girl. I know.”
He scoops me up in his arms, bloody dress and all. He carries me straight to the bathroom and sets my feet down on the mat before turning on the rain shower. He grabs my shower cap off the hook but then returns it. He comes to stand in front of me and holds a hand out toward my hair. “May I?”
“Mhmm.” I stand frozen like a doll as he thoughtfully grabs a section of locs and inspects them. He frowns, a pensive look on his face.
“There’s at least a little . . . ,” he says to himself with a sigh. I assume he’s referring to blood. Jeffery Mauldin’s blood. The man I killed.
He lets my hair fall softly onto my bare shoulders then rummages through my products on the vanity. He looks over his shoulder, two different bottles in his hands. “We have to wash your hair. Is there a product you want me to use?”
My chest tightens. We have to wash your hair. Is there a product you want me to use.
“My regular shampoo is fine.”
He tucks that bottle under his arm then circles behind me. His fingers are light and warm as he unzips my ruined dress, I close my eyes at the small comfort.
He comes back to face me. “You have to take everything off. I can leave while you undress, but it would be best if I help you wash to make sure you don’t miss any . . .” He trails off with an apologetic wince.
“Blood? I get it.” He nods then looks down at his feet. The natural instinct to soothe the pained look on his face makes me feel more awake than I have all morning. “Hey.” I tip his chin up with my finger and meet his deep, wounded stare. “Thank you.”
His mouth forms a tight line, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against mine. My eyes fall closed, and I sigh into his nearness. When he speaks, it sounds like there’s a knot of rose thorns in his throat, tangled vines of guilt and grief. “I will always take care of you. Whatever is in my power and then some. You hear me?”
“I do.” I grab his hands hanging by his sides and give them a light squeeze. “I trust you.”
I drop his hands and take a step toward the shower. It’s easier than I expect to slip the thin straps of my dress off my shoulders and let the whole thing fall to the floor. Despite everything we’ve done, it’s still the first time he’s seen me fully naked. Baring my physical form feels so irrelevant when I feel split open inside.
I force myself to step into the shower. I fear if I stand here trembling a second longer, I might never move. The water’s sting is a welcome pain, a jolt to my senses cutting through the foggy state of my mind. There are two shower heads at one end and a large standing tub against the other. I stand under the stream, shivering despite the temperature.
Lochlan follows behind me. He wasn’t wearing a shirt to begin with but doesn’t remove his athletic shorts. I close my eyes but hear him whisper at my back. “Please tell me, Stella. Are you hurt anywhere I can’t see?” I instantly know what he means. It’s a plea so drenched in emotion, I squeeze my eyes tighter, as if that could somehow stop it from seeping into my aching bones. The pain in his voice hurts more than any part of my body.
His question makes me shift my legs and hips, searching for any soreness. That’s when the sob I’ve been holding down comes bursting to the surface. My shoulders wrack as I cry, burying my face in my hands.
