Page 33 of The Tower

"And where the fuck were you for Jered's funeral?" Tom probes. "He was our buddy, man. What kind of chicken shit are you not to show up at his funeral?"

Jered wasn't really a buddy of mine, more like a work colleague who I had very little to do with. Tom was a lot closer to him, so I know that the loss is harder for him to bear than it is for me.

"I'm sorry, man." It's a heartfelt apology, apparent in the low and circumspect tone of my voice.

Tom sighs. "Well, yeah... what can you do. It's not like the bosses really cared."

He huffs in disgust, and I'm sure he's the one now biting his lips to keep himself from saying something stupid. I know he isn't in it as much as other Covey henchmen are, at least not anymore. He's grown tired of it just as I have. But neither of us ever had the courage to say it out loud.

"Fuck, man, I just want this job done," he adds, almost sounding desperate. "We need to fucking find this Abbott asshole and hope he didn't leave the country or something."

His words hit a spot with me, causing my head to spin as an idea forms within the walls of my afflicted skull.

An idea that could lead the Covey to Clyde Abbott and free myself from their bounds especially since I would be the one to finally enable his assassination.

Because I possess knowledge about the Abbott family that no one else does.

Clyde Abbott may not have left the country.

But he could've retreated to a place that no one in the Covey knows of.

No one but me.

Chapter 18

Libby

I know we can't stay and play house in this little cabin forever. I know, and he knows.

We've developed a routine, something that gets us through the day and keeps us sane during testing time. Things have changed ever since we had sex that first evening. There was always that tension between us, that pull toward each other. The way he treated me played with my mind. It's obvious he cares about me and that my well-being is a priority to him even though I bear the name of a family he's been paid to kill. Maybe that's why he's kept his distance during the first few days, avoiding my questions, avoiding my eyes, even avoiding my presence after he'd saved me from life-threatening danger.

He was trying to decide what to do with me. He didn't know whether he should let me live. Keane doesn't have to tell me that. I could see it all in his face, in the way he looked at me, and in the crease that appeared between his eyebrows every time I talked to him.

Has he made his decision now? His demeanor toward me has changed ever since that glorious sex we shared. My arm was hurting when I woke up the next morning, but instead of taking another pill, I decided to sneak outside and catch the sunrise while slowly working through the pain as I moved my arm. I'm tired of being crippled and weak. It's time for my body to understand that I'm done resting and ready to face what lies ahead.

Whatever that may be.

With each day that passes, Keane and I grow closer together, sharing little anecdotes from our lives, laughing together, kissing and playing together. We have had sex every single day, sometimes more than once. It's become like a drug to me, a remedy that I crave more than the painkillers to make me forget my ongoing agony. I hate how slowly my shoulder is recovering, and I'm tired of being in constant pain. The painkillers Keane gives me are helping a little, but they don't comfort me as much as being with him does. When he's inside me, when our bodies are pressed against each other, skin against skin, the warmth of his strong body radiating like a healing light—that's the only time I'm at ease.

But I know it can't last. We're living an illusion. And despite everything, I still can't know for sure that he will let me live.

We went for a little walk yesterday, something I'm sure he wouldn't suggest if he thought someone could find us up here. It felt so good to be outside for longer than a few minutes, to move, to be able to do something as mundane as walking through the fields, watching the sunset, and talking.

But we were always careful, both of us. I have no idea what his plans are, and I don't dare ask because I'm afraid of the answer.

All I have is my own puddle of wild thoughts torturing me as I sit idly on a bench outside the house with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I let the morning sun warm my face. It's still early, and my shoulder is throbbing angrily from my little workout as it does every morning. But I can feel it getting better. Keane has been helping me change the bandages every day, and every single day, the wound looks a little better, despite my overzealous attempts to speed up the return of my mobility.

Keane repeatedly warns me not to overdo it, his eyebrows arched with concern and affection.

I can't make sense of this man. He has done so much to me, good and bad. He sprung from the darkness, and maybe heisthe darkness I've feared all my life. He told me a truth about my family that I've always sensed was tucked away in a dark corner where I wouldn't have to see it.

He made me look. He made me face a truth that I needed to learn.

But why did he do it? Why did he tell me all these things? Is it because he knows I'll be dead soon anyway? Or is it because he wants to help me leave it all behind for good? He said that the people he's working for are still looking for my uncle. They still want to see him dead, and if they knew I existed, they'd want me dead, too.

I'm too afraid to inquire about the state of play. Have they found my uncle? Is he already dead? Would Keane tell me if he knew? And did Keane tell them about me? Are we just waiting out here for them to come because he can't kill me himself?

Is all this a lie? Or can I trust the affection I want to see in his eyes every time he looks at me? The gentle way he touches me, his greedy kisses, his passionate lovemaking, and the way he stares at me dreamily after yet another joint climax?

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