Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(70)
“Another excellent show,” Tom says, clapping me on the shoulder as Nate’s friends help him out of the ring.
I unravel the tape around my knuckles, testing out the pain that’s mounting in my joints now that the adrenaline is already wearing off. “Thanks.”
“Same again next month?” When I nod, Tom grins, passing me a clean towel for a gash I didn’t even notice on my brow. “Better get that looked at, Dr. Kane. Might need a few stitches. You can pick up your cash tomorrow at my dealership.”
Towel held to my bleeding face, I duck between the ropes and leave the ring. I pick up my bag from the locker and head through the crowd, nodding the occasional thanks to the spectators who pat me on the back and chant my name. But I’m not here for the attention. Or the money.
I’m here to let my monster free. And there’s only one thing that beast truly wants.
To claw its way closer to Rose.
My pulse spikes at the mere thought of seeing her soon. But I try to shake it off as I make my way into the bathroom, commandeering one of the two sinks in the small, run-down space that smells like piss and beer. The steps are mechanical to me. Wash hands. Gloves on. Sterilize the wound. I thread the needle then face the mirror. I start the first stitch, leaning close to my reflection as I pierce my own flesh with the curved needle.
“Great fight, Dr. Kane,” a voice says behind me.
The monster inside me claws at my ribs.
“Mr. Cranwell.” I lean back, pulling the thread taut. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Cranwell has a prosthetic eye now to lie over an ocular implant I already know he received in Omaha, the subtle differences nearly indistinguishable from his uninjured eye. Both track me in the reflection. “You’re looking well. How are you feeling?”
“Better than you,” he says as his gaze lands on the gash through my brow.
I let out a quiet hmm and refocus on my wound, inserting the needle for the next stitch. The bite of pain is a welcome delicacy for the darkness in me to consume. It keeps my attention where it should be—away from breaking Matthew Cranwell’s neck.
Cranwell leans against the sink next to me, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches my progress. “So. I heard the buttoned-up town doctor was not just mending wounds but making them too. Had to come and see it for myself. It was a good show.”
I nod my thanks.
“Do you think Eric Donovan put up a fight when your little girlfriend killed him?”
My eyes snap to his. Blood roars in my ears. The urge to rip his spine straight through his throat is overwhelming. The only thing that stops me is luck. Another man enters the bathroom, not noticing that we’re staring each other down, me with my barely subdued rage, Cranwell with a smirk that I’m desperate to punch off his fucking ugly face.
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” I say when the man enters one of the stalls.
Cranwell’s grin stretches. “Oh, right. She’s not your girlfriend, is she? At least, that’s what I heard. Probably a good thing for you. Don’t want to have your perfect image marred by someone like Rose Evans.”
An electric chill climbs through my flesh. “I meant I have no idea about the other thing. You know as much as anybody around town that he’s never been found. Only his vehicle. You have no reason to be asking me anything about this.”
“Of course, of course. Silly me.” His head tilts. His eyes narrow. “Are you sure about that, though? She was in your home for a couple of months, after all. You sure you didn’t see anything … untoward?”
“If this is your attempt at an interrogation, I must say”—I turn my attention back to the mirror, starting the next stitch, swallowing the rage that threatens to tremble my hand—“it’s fucking amateur. And deeply unprofessional. But I guess that makes sense, considering the circumstances of your departure from the Sheriff’s Office.”
Cranwell chuckles, scratching at the graying stubble on his chin. “I ain’t interrogating you, Dr. Kane. I’m just askin’ a simple question. Because from where I sit, it seems strange that she would be in Shiretown just moments before Donovan was last seen. A little thing like Rose Evans? Buying a big ol’ knife? But, hell … What do I know?”
I shoot a cold glare in his direction, then pierce my brow and pull another stitch tight. “Well, Mr. Cranwell, I can confirm I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I’m not sure you do either. Eric Donovan is missing. He could be anywhere. He could have fucked off to Mexico for all we know. The kinds of allegations you seem to be dancing around are extremely serious.”
Cranwell’s smile stretches, a predator ready to take down the competition in its domain. There’s a threat behind every wrinkle of weathered flesh, every movement of muscle and bone. “Did you know someone about her size did this to me?” he asks as he gestures to his eye. “A woman. Hit me and stabbed me, right in the eye. For no reason. Came onto my property entirely unprovoked.”
“Sounds to me like you don’t know who did it. And I wonder why someone would want to attack you unprovoked. It’s not like you’ve done that to anyone else … right?” I knot another stitch and wipe the blood from my brow before I start the next. “Oh, I heard Lucy moved to her parents’ place in Minnesota and took the kids with her. I’m so very sorry for the dissolution of your marriage. I wonder what could have precipitated that.”