Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“Look at the state of you,” she breathes, closing the magazine and coming to me. She holds me still, a hand on either side of my neck, turning my face slowly each way to check the damage. “Why haven’t you been cleaned up?”
I take one of her hands and pull it away, making her automatically release the other. “My wife’s not in the mood to tend to me, and I don’t know where Doc is.”
“Sit.” She goes to the cupboard and I do as I’m told, dropping heavily onto a stool at the island. “Doc’s gone out for drinks with a lady friend.”
“What?”
She nods, eyebrows high as she carries a box back over. “A nurse he used to work with.” She flips the box open. “Twenty years younger than him.”
“The rampant old git.”
“He bumped into her while he was out and about.” She soaks a pad in some liquid and comes in close, starting to wipe me up.
I wince. “Where does Doc go out and about?”
“I think it was at a clinic.” Mum dumps the used pad and gets a fresh one. “Maybe he’s moonlighting.”
“We pay him too much,” I mumble. “Ouch!”
“Shhh,” she murmurs, holding my chin as she dabs at my cut lip.
“He was carrying piss around last week,” I say.
“What?”
“Brad’s piss. Doc had a sample. Brad said something about a water infection.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He was obviously lying.”
“So why would Doc have Brad’s piss?”
I have absolutely no brain space to devote to that. “Fuck.” I shy away from the pad. “Shit, that stings.”
“I’m sorry, my baby boy.” She wrinkles her nose and pops a kiss on the end of mine, squeezing my jaw in her hand. I curl my lip and growl to make a point, and she laughs. “You don’t scare me, son.”
I grin, pulling her hand down, watching her faff like she loves.
“What?” she asks, getting a tube of something from the box.
“I love you, Mum.”
She tries to hide her surprise, squeezing a bit onto the tip of her finger and moving into my side, dabbing at my lip. “What’s got into you?”
“I want you to be happy.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “I am happy.”
“The happiest you can possibly be.”
“Danny, why are you talking like this?” she asks, withdrawing. “I don’t like it. Is something about to happen?”
I smile, hearing a couple of cars pulling up outside. Otto’s not asked her. And I know that because she will definitely say yes. She loves him. I’m slowly accepting that. I stand and kiss her cheek. “Something’s always about to happen, Mum. Goodnight.”
“Night,” she whispers, unsure, letting me wander away half cleaned up. I make it into the entrance hall and meet Otto, Ringo, and Goldie. “Good evening,” I quip, because it’s far from good. I try to smile and feel it pull on my lip, opening the wound again. Fuck it. I latch on and suck it clean.
“Fucking Christ,” Otto mutters, taking in my war wounds.
“Mine’s better than yours.” I point to his quite pathetic swollen nose, and he shakes his head. “How did you get on?” I ask, willing someone to take my mind off my woes.
“You’ve not spoken to James or Brad?”
“No, I’ve been busy bleeding.” Face and heart.
“The Escalade we checked out has been cloned. The ex-cop is an eighty-year-old charity worker with a wholesome wife, two-point-five children, five grandchildren, a retriever, and a lake house.”
“Perfect.”
“And heads-up,” Otto says.
“What?”
“James overhead a call Brad took from Higham.”
“What’s he calling Brad for?”
“You were busy.”
I huff, vaguely remembering Brad mentioning Higham’s trip’s been extended. “When’s he back in town?” I need to find out what’s going on with Amber’s body.
“Don’t know. But that’s not what you should be concerned about.”
“It’s not?” Amber’s body feels like a big deal.
“No. Higham mentioned Richard Bean to Brad.”
Shit. “How does Higham know about Bean? He’s on holiday.”
“I’d say ask Brad, but I’m not sure you want to go there yet.”
Fuck, I don’t. My fucking head is ringing. I sigh, going to Otto and resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, not looking at him. “Make her happy,” I whisper so the others can’t hear.
“Don’t insult me.”
I look out the corner of my eye, smiling. And the overgrown, pierced, mean motherfucker smiles right back. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” he says quietly.
I climb the stairs on heavy feet and drag my tired bones down the corridor, my despondency increasing the closer I get to our room. And the louder Maggie’s cries get.
When I reach the door, I take the handle, resting my forehead on the wood, taking a moment. Breathe. It’s just one more night. It’ll get better. I open the door and find Rose standing at the end of the bed.
Floods of tears streaming down her cheeks.
Maggie’s in the middle of the sheets screaming the fucking house down—a high-pitched, distressed cry.
Rose sees me, her red, blotchy face a picture of equal distress. “She won’t stop,” she sobs, beaten. “She just won’t stop crying.” She points at our baby accusingly, like . . . look at her. “What’s wrong with her?” she cries, hands covering her face. “I’ve fed her, changed her, burped her. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”