Page 49 of The Girl with No Name

Finally, he released her, only to stroke a hand down her cheek. He was memorizing her, but she couldn’t blame him for it: she was doing the same.

Just in case.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she told him.

He nodded, face impassive, cold and hard, focused on the mission and the mission alone. He walked a few feet, bent over, and, muscles straining, lifted a steel and cement hatch in the ground. Kara approached, looking down into a dark abyss, and when he cracked open a glow stick and tossed it down, a ladder appeared, barely visible.

It was a long way down.

Just like they’d discussed, she waited for him to descend, then followed him, not bothering to close the hatch.

Down they went, down, down, down.

Outside, it began to rain.

15

When Conor’s dad died, Conor had been eleven and enraged at the world—and especially at his father for leaving him, first slowly as his health declined from the cancer, and then suddenly when he was just gone. Hank O’Connell had been a hero, just like Conor was going to be one day. And heroes never deserted their families, no matter what.

He’d acted out at school, getting into fights and talking back to teachers. Finally, his mom sat him down, and explained that his father didn’t choose to leave, would never have left Conor behind, if he’d had a choice. She’d pulled Conor onto her lap, kissed his hair, and told him that his father would always be with him. Forever. And even though Conor hadn’t believed her at first, he pretended he felt his father with him, and after a while, it had started to feel true. And then itwastrue, until that fateful day in Frankfurt, when Hank O’Connell wouldn’t have wanted to know his son, not anymore.

His dad had died twenty years ago. Conor had long since forgotten how to pretend. So now, as he sat alone in thebunker, numb to every sensation, while Luke was hell knew where suffering through hell knew what, he couldn’t even comfort himself with pretending that Kara and Micah were with him.

And what kind of comfort would that be, anyway? He didn’t want to be haunted by Kara’s vengeful ghost. Or seek guidance from Micah’s. All he wanted was to die, so he could join them. Heaven or hell, he’d beat down the door until he could hold them in his arms again, until he could apologize and tell Kara how fucking much he loved her, had always loved her. How sorry he was. If they were in heaven, he’d crawl across glass to make himself worthy to be near her. And if they were in hell, he’d cover her body with his, protect her from whatever torture might be doled out to her. Take every lash, every burn, just to keep her safe.

God, he hadn’t kept her safe. He’d promised her, long ago in that hotel room, that he’d always keep her safe. She’d challenged him recently, pointed out that he was falling down on the job, and he’d gotten angry. She’d been right, because here he was, alive, and there she was, a cold body in a morgue.

He hadn’t saved her. Hadn’t saved either of them. And so he was ready to be done with all of this.

But that left Luke. Luke, who deserved to live.

Fuck, it was freezing in here.

The door opened, and the professor appeared. Flanked by guards, of course. Even though Conor was restrained, the professor had enough self-preservation to know better than to be alone with him. Conor had expected him to gloat, look triumphant, but there was a sad, thoughtful look in Chris’s eyes. They were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying.

Mourning.

Fuck this man. He had no right to mourn Kara’s death. He’d killed her.

But hadn’t Conor, too?

“I miss her,” the professor told him. “I’ve missed her for years, so I didn’t expect this to hurt so bad, but losing her like this…”

Conor refused to listen to this. “You didn’t lose her. Youkilledher.”

The professor nodded. “I did.”

“Why?” It was less of a question and more of wail.

“Because I am a selfish man, Mr. O’Connell. I didn’t love her, in the way she wanted to be loved. I wanted to own her, and I refused to let her live a life without me. I would’ve saved her, killed Mr. Feldman, Mr. James, and you, but she would never let that happen. In the end, she sacrificed herself to save Mr. Feldman, taking the bullet meant for him. Mr. Feldman attacked my guards, losing his legendary cool in his grief and rage, and got himself killed in the process.” He examined his tie. “They were here to rescue you, you know,” he added. “I guess in the end, she did love you, like she never loved me.”

A moan, or a sob, or maybe a severed roar, broke through Conor’s chest and teeth. The pain was too much. He understood now why Jewish people tore their clothes when they were mourning. He wanted to rip his clothes, his skin, his heart out of his chest.

“You know,” the professor said, “I think I always hated you most. Not because she was with you, first, but because you and I are the most similar. Yes, I have some of Mr. Feldman’s scheming in me, and I suppose there have been times where I possessed Mr. James’ purity of spirit, but at the end of the day, I am as selfish and intractable as you.”

“We’re nothing alike.” Conor slashed his head to the side in negation.