Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(59)
It felt like making love.
Ever since that realization, anxiety has churned in my belly, winding ever tighter, threatening to unleash confessions that I’ll never be able to put back. I think I won’t be able to keep them locked down for much longer. And my tarot deck isn’t much help either. I shuffle. I draw cards. I read their meaning and decide I don’t like it. So I try again. But every time, the result is the same. Cards like the Moon. Or the Fool. The Ten of Wands. Every time I draw cards, the messages come back the same. Uncertainty. Fear. A decision that looms ahead, and one I feel ill-prepared to make.
“Christ, Gransie,” I say as I slide the Moon back into the deck a second time. “I already know I don’t know. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Good things not in your future?”
My heart seizes beneath my bones.
I look up. Matt Cranwell stands in front of me, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, a slow grin creeping across his face.
“Maybe that’s true. Good things probably aren’t,” he says as he leans closer, pinning me with his single eye. The other is hidden by a black patch, the strap biting into his skin. “Especially seeing as how Eric Donovan’s truck was just pulled from the Platte River.”
Ice crystallizes beneath my skin. I try not to look away, or let my skin flush, but how do you control your body when it begs to release your secrets to the world? I’m not a sociopath. I’m not cold and remote, emotionless about the world around me. I harbor anger. I want vengeance.
And I feel fear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? You haven’t heard the news?” Cranwell takes a seat one down from mine, tapping his knee as he gives a thoughtful nod. “It seems poor Mr. Donovan’s truck went ass-over-teakettle into the river,” he says on the heels of a deep sigh. “They’re still lookin’ for his body. I’m sure something will turn up soon.”
“Perhaps he’s gone on a mission to spread the word of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ to faraway lands,” I say, crossing myself, though I have no idea if I’m even doing it right. “But if he found himself pissed drunk and died in a moment of stupidity, may he rest in peace. I bet he was a fine, upstanding citizen. Amen.”
Matt chuckles. “Now, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the latter, would ya?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“The dyin’ part. See, I had someone attack me not long ago. Just out of the blue.” He smacks his fist against his palm, the flowers rustling in his fist. “Bam. Just like that. But I hit her back.”
“I bet you have practice at that.”
Matt’s eyes darken. “And you know what that little bitch did?” he says, his voice filled with gravel and wrath. “She took my eye.” He stares me down, his finger pointed to the patch over his missing globe.
“Why are you here?” I demand. Slowly, Matt lowers his hand, tilting his head. “Just to tell me about some guy’s truck? Or maybe you want to spread the word about how you got your ass handed to you by a phantom woman?”
“I’m visitin’ my wife,” he says. “She’ll be here a few days.”
Rage narrows my vision to a pinprick, the world around us falling away. “Guess she didn’t have good things in her future either.” My gaze falls to the bouquet in his hand. “Chrysanthemums? Really …?”
He glances down at the flowers. “What’s wrong with them?” he asks, but it’s obvious by his tone that he doesn’t really care what answer I give.
“It’s a funeral flower, you eggheaded dumbass. It represents death.”
“Hmpf.” He gives them a cursory glance, then throws the bouquet at the wall so it drops into the bin beneath. Some of the petals float free with the impact, drifting to the floor. He looks at me and smiles. “Guess I’ll just have to go empty-handed.”
“Why is she here?” I demand.
“Damndest thing,” he replies, breaking his gaze away to look across the aisle at the flyers pinned to a bulletin board above the waiting room chairs. “Have trouble sleeping?” “Know the signs of stress!” “Physical activity and you.” Matt chuckles as though he’s looking at his own set of tarot cards, divining their secret meaning and finding it fitting. “She just tripped and fell. A stroke of bad luck. Maybe the same as Eric Donovan.”
“I still don’t know who you mean.”
Matt turns to face me. His gaze pins to mine, unblinking. “That’s funny. Because—”
“Rose Evans?” Nurse Naomi leans over the threshold of the door to the orthopedic ward. I give her a nod. She looks so different from the last time I saw her. Her hair is shorter, darker. Her skin brighter, like she’s glowing from inside. There’s a confidence in the set of her shoulders that wasn’t there before. Her eyes flick to Matt and back to me. “We’re ready for you.”
Naomi doesn’t let me out of her sight as I stand. I try not to let my sweating hands tremble as they clutch the grips of my crutches. She gives me the barest hint of a smile. I give her a nod in reply.
“Say,” Matt says behind me, “how did you break your leg, anyway?”