Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(8)

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you,” I say as I cross my arms and straighten my spine.

“Shame. I know it’s not as exciting as Mass General must have been, but we do still get some interesting surgical cases in the boonies. I had one tonight shortly before you came in. A patient of yours according to his records, actually. Belligerent prick, if you ask me. Cranmore? Cranburn?”

“Cranwell? You had Matt Cranwell in here?” I ask, and Dr. Chopra nods. “Yeah, I don’t think you’re far off with the belligerent prick assessment. What was he in for?”

“He had a handful of cocktail sticks in his eye.”

“He … what?” Dr. Chopra lifts a shoulder. My brow furrows as I turn to face her. “He wasn’t transported out to a level-one trauma center?”

“No. There was no salvaging the eye. Dr. Mitchell performed the surgery. Must have been an interesting story, but the delightful Mr. Cranwell wasn’t willing to share.” Dr. Chopra passes Rose’s chart back to me with a faint, weary smile. “You should go home and get some rest. When are you in next?”




“Thursday night,” I say absentmindedly as I stare down at Rose’s name on the chart.

“See you then,” Dr. Chopra replies, and then she disappears, leaving me on my own with my sleeping patient.

The one who smelled like pi?a colada. The one who didn’t call an ambulance despite her injury, choosing to break into my clinic instead. Who seemed surprised when I asked her if it was a motorcycle accident.

I head to where Rose’s clothes are folded on the vinyl chair next to her bed. Only her boots and her black leather jacket are left. Everything else was cut from her body. There’s a small black pouch in one pocket. Inside it are metal tools, some of them streaked with dried blood. Realizing they must be the tools she used to break into my clinic, I put them back. Her wallet is still in the inside jacket pocket, and I take it out next. I pull out her license, the one I skimmed for vital details when I was on the phone with the emergency dispatcher. The card is registered in the state of Texas, an address in Odessa. I look through the rest of her wallet but there’s not much to find, just a debit and credit card and twenty dollars in cash. Nothing that confirms or denies the twinge of intuition that creeps through my guts.

At least, not until I replace her wallet inside her jacket and my fingers graze another card, one that’s loose in the interior pocket.

Another driver’s license. One belonging to a man.

Matthew Cranwell.





STRANDED


Rose



Day three of being stuck in this bed.

Zofia brought Baz with her yesterday and tried her best to cheer me up by saying my stay in this hospital is like a less-fun version of a holiday, minus the beach. Or the sand. Or the hot guys. So that was a fail. Baz just rolled his eyes and laid his first three Venom Dark Origins comics and my tarot deck next to the medication button that rests untouched beside my hand. Then he asked the question that’s been haunting me worse than the smell of the hot dog stand in a mid-August heat wave: When are you getting out of here?

Not soon enough.

And now, as José Silveria stands near the foot of my bed, his hat clutched between his weathered hands, I’m faced with the hard reality of exactly what not soon enough really means.

“What about the bottle stand? Or the balloon-and-dart? I can totally handle one of the games, I swear,” I say, trying not to sound desperate. Judging by the way José sighs and fidgets with the brim of his hat, I’m failing.

“Rose, you can barely stand up. How long does it take you to get from here to the bathroom?” I frown. Ten minutes doesn’t sound like a great answer, so I say nothing at all. “We can’t stay in Hartford any longer or we’ll be late for our dates in Grand Island. I can’t take you with us, Rose. You need to stay and recover.”

“But—”

“I know you. You won’t look after yourself and you can’t say no to anyone when they ask for help. Jim’ll be lugging equipment or stacking boxes, and you’ll be out there on one leg, trying to do it for him.”

“That’s not true.”

“What about the time you busted your fingers in that crash two years ago?”

I cringe and tighten my left hand into a fist to hide how permanently crooked my pinkie is. “What about it?”

“Did you or did you not offer to help fix the curtain and end up stapling it to your hand?”

“Unrelated. One was an accident. The other was … also an accident.”

José sighs and offers me a smile lit with the warmth that’s earned him his much-deserved reputation as the loveable ringmaster of Silveria Circus. “We will always welcome you back. When you’re healed. But right now, you need a chance to recover.” José rests one hand on my good ankle. His eyes are always so kind with their crinkled edges and warm mahogany hues. Even when he’s breaking my heart. “You’ll come back as soon as you’re given the all clear. This isn’t forever. It’s just for right now.”

I nod.




His words echo in my mind as though my subconscious is desperate to cling to them and make them real. But even thinking about how long just for right now could be has my chest tightening and my eyes stinging. I’ve been with Silveria for so long, I can almost convince myself that I’ve forgotten the other life I left behind. I was just a kid, only fifteen when I joined the tour. Silveria has been my home. My family. And though I know he’s right, and I don’t want to make this harder on José than I’m sure it is, I can’t help but feel discarded.