Page 8 of Absolution

He takes a sip. “Good. It’s less sugary that way.”

My face burns and I look down. “So… what now?” I don’t even know what I mean myself or what kind of answer I expect. I busy myself with spreading butter on a piece of bread.

“I don’t know anymore, Ker. Does it matter, though? At this point?” He glances at Cece’s jam-covered cheeks and grabs a paper tissue, wiping some of it off.

I frown as I look at their interaction. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Is it important to know everything, to have everything plotted out?” He drops the now-crumpled tissue on his plate and leans back.

Cecilia waves a spoon in front of her and yogurt splatters in a wide circle around her. I reach for a new tissue and wipe it off, as I study him. I don’t get it and I don’t know how to answer. I’m beginning to think he’s hallucinating because he doesn’t sound like himself anymore. I wonder when I started to believe I knew anything about him at all.

He clears his throat. “Is it that important… to be in control?”

I stare at him as I ruffle my daughter’s hair. “Spoon belongs in your mouth, love,” I tell her before I turn to Christian. “Yes. Of course it is. Don’t you think so?”

He takes a bite out of a piece of bread and chews it annoyingly slowly, shrugging. “I’m used to plans changing, to needing to adapt.”

“But you try to control it, don’t you? I doubt you’re that much of a hippie inside that sharp suit.”

He looks down at his flannel shirt and wrinkly oversized pants and grins. “Not very sharp at the moment.”

I follow his gaze, swallowing against the bolt that shoots through me, seeing his caramel-colored skin in the gap in the shirt. “You know what I mean,” I say faintly.

“Yeah.” He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m probably not much of a hippie, no.”

I frown. He’s acting strange.

The conversation dies. I help Cece finish up her breakfast and then I run a bath for the two of us. When we emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of strawberry-scented steam, fresh and sated, Christian stands by the window, his right hand clutching his left shoulder. Cecilia runs through the room, dressed in thick socks and a yellow bathrobe. She takes a lap around Christian’s legs and then crawls to her doll that lies under the living room table. I smile at her, then I follow his gaze. The day seems just a nuance less dark than the night.

“You’ve raised her beautifully,” he says softly as he turns to me.

That wasn’t what I expected. I’d have thought he’d crack more ‘wise words from the life of an assassin’. “She’s a very easy child. Maybe you’ve noticed.” I avoid his gaze.

“Yes, and no. I… don’t have much experience with kids.”

Something in his voice makes me glance at him, trying to catch his eyes. He sounds so desolate. I swallow hard. Not human. He’s not human.I can’t fall for this again!

“I figured as much.”

He gives me a half-smile, his eyes dull.

Damn you! Don’t be human.

I dress my daughter as I keep glancing at him. She trots off to the fireplace and starts piling some of the lighter logs. There’s a peacefully crackling fire burning behind the thick glass doors.

“Thank you for the fire.”

“Yeah. It was cold.”

The morning passes agonizingly slowly. Cecilia sleeps when we should have eaten lunch and I fall into a coma next to her. I wake, sweaty, full of worry. Where is he? I need to see what he’s doing. More hours have passed than I would have thought.

Yes. I need the control.

Christian is lying on the couch with his back to me. I immediately realize three things, all washing over me at once. He’s exposing his back and I have access to a knife again, there’s not a fiber in me that wants to hurt him anymore, and I don’t think he’s well. I bend over him and his eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake. That’s strange. His forehead is sweaty, and his face is flushed. Putting my palm against his cheek, I gasp when his hand suddenly strikes out and grabs mine. But I felt it.

“You’re burning up, Christian. You have a fever.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles and releases his hold on my hand. He rises with a grimace and remains sitting, swaying. “I think I need to look at my shoulder.”

---