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The sea. It takes up the whole bottom half of the window in front of me. The top half is dominated by sky, a few shades lighter, dotted with cloud puffs. And blocking most of the view is a man, looming at the bottom of the bed.
“You’re awake,” Donnacha smirks. He leans his palms on the edge of the bed frame and peers at me. “Yeah, wouldn’t try to move if I was you. You’re higher than a kite right now.”
Ignoring his suggestion, and the pain ripping through my limbs, I push myself up further in the bed. Tubes strain against my hands and forearms, and the machines next to me rattle.
“Where am I?” I grunt.
“The chalet on Martha’s Vineyard. You’re a lucky son of a bitch, kiddo.”
“I need water.”
He rounds the bed and pours out a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. He lifts it to my lips and I gulp greedily. Then, he props up the pillow behind my head and sinks into the armchair next to me, crossing his feet up on the bed.
Donnacha Quinn is always so unfazed about everything.
“I knew I recognized her,” he repeats. “Remember? I said I did the day we swapped cars in the rest stop. She’s Jeronimo Vargas’s chick. I saw her when me and Antoin flew to Colombia to try to strike a deal with them. After the Bratnovs cut us off.”
“Was.”
“What’s that?”
“Was,his chick.”
He laughs. Too loud for my sensitive ears. “Yeah man,was.Thanks to me popping him off.”
It even hurts when I move my eyeballs to stare at him. “Where is she?”
“A few doors down. Nurse Daisy has her out cold.” He flashes me an apologetic grin and adds, “I drove into Vargas’s van a bit too fast, sorry about that. Ah well,” he slaps his thighs and rises to his feet. “If Daisy knew I was in here she’d throw a shit fit, you know what she’s like. Better leave you to rest up.”
I grunt something in response. He gets to the doorway then pauses. Turns around with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Oh, and Cill?”
“Yes?”
“You owe me one.”
* * *
I drift in and out of medicated sleep, and it’s filled with nothing but thoughts of Dahlia. Daisy comes and goes, changing the bandage on my shoulder and fiddling with the tubes sprouting from my limbs. When the door opens again, I’m expecting it to be Daisy again, but it’s another Quinn.
Poppy.
She breezes in like a soft wind, bringing the smell of sunscreen and warmth with her. A flash of horror contorts her face when she sees me, but she quickly rearranges her features into a forced smile when she realizes I’m awake.
“Oh, Cill,” she breathes, bending down to gently kiss my cheek. Then she sinks into the armchair and gingerly wraps her hand around mine. “I thought you’d be out cold. How are you feeling?” She winces, shaking her head. “Sorry, silly question, I know.”
“How is she?” I croak.
“Sitting up. Talking. Asking the same about you,” she smiles sadly. Looking around the room, she adds, “Gosh. I remember when I woke up here. With all the white furniture and the view, I thought I’d woken up in heaven’s waiting room.” Her soft chuckle dissolves into silence.
“I couldn’t save her, Pop.”
No amount of Oxycodone coursing through my veins can dull the guilt clawing at my chest.
“What are you talking about? She’s safe and going to recover fully.”
“No thanks to me. I had no idea that fucking Vargas…” I trail off, his name stuck in my dry throat. “I told her I wouldn’t let her go.”
