Page 55 of Shatter

"It's me." I keep my voice low. "Can I come in?"

"Yes." Her voice is small through the wood.

She's sitting up in the middle of the bed with her back against the headboard and her knees pulled up under the blanket.

She hasn't slept, and the drive's still in her hand.

Her eyes go straight to mine when I come in, then down to my hands.

I washed them at the spigot behind the shop until the water ran clear, but there's nothing I can do about the knuckles, split open again and swollen, or the rust-colored crescents still dark under my nails.

She looks at them for a long time, her face going still.

Her breathing changes, shallow and quick, and she pulls her knees up tighter against her chest.

I know exactly what she's seeing.

A man with blood on his hands, standing between her and the door.

I don't come any closer.

I lean my shoulders back against the door and slide down it until I'm sitting on the floor, knees up, hands resting on them where she can see every inch.

"I'm sorry." My voice comes out rough. "I should've washed better."

"Is he dead?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

I don't lie to her.

"Yes." I hold her eyes.

She flinches, a small hitch of her shoulders.

Then her chin comes up, and she looks at my hands again.

Something moves behind her eyes I can't read.

Fear, maybe.

She should be afraid of me.

But there's something else, too, tangled up underneath it, and I don't know what to call it.

We sit there while the ceiling fan turns.

Somewhere outside, a mockingbird starts running through every song it knows, one after another, loud and bright and too cheerful for the hour.

"He gave us a name." My voice barely makes it across the room.

She goes rigid.

Every line of her body pulls tight, and her fist clenches around the drive until her knuckles blanch white through the gauze.

I don't say it.

I don't have to.

Her lips part.