Page 25 of Widow's Walk

It almost feels wrong to see her like this. There’s something cruel about the way she looks when she’s unconscious. To witness her so exposed. No armor. No sharp comebacks. No harrowing smirk present. She’s unguarded and peaceful.

She’s simply Sinclair.

And it wrecks me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. As I continue to watch her, my blood continues to boil.

What did they do to you?

How the fuck do I decode every lie and every scar like it’s a goddamn blueprint?

Chapter ten

Blackwell

Isit there, jaw tight, nerves fraying, while stewing in silence, waiting for her to come around.

Two goddamn days since the doctor gave me that folder full of her past no one has had the decency to care about. For two days, the questions have been rotting me from the inside like poison.

She begins to stir, her lashes fluttering as her face softens, dazed and delicate. I move to alert the nurse. She and the doctor sweep in to check her vitals, murmuring updates, and making notes. I step back, out of their way, but not out of reach. Keeping a close eye on everything they do. Every beep from the monitors, every flick of their pen, every touch to Sinclair.

I’ve sat in silence. Bit my tongue. Swallowed my questions like broken glass. But time has not dulled the fury. And I won’t know peace until I get some answers. She’s out of surgery and lucid enough. And I am done waiting.

As soon as the room is once again cleared, I take the chair next to her, and we’re both quiet.

I clear my throat. “How are you feeling?”

She turns her head with this dreamy look on her face as if she had no idea I was here. “Hi,” she whispers with a slow grin.

My eyebrows twitch. “How are you feeling?” I repeat.

“Oh, I’m good.” Her speech is slowed. “Likerealgood.”

My lips twitch. “Well, surgery went well.” She giggles in response. “But I’m sure you’re used to this,” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

Her smile remains as she faces forward and shrugs her shoulders. “Had a few.”

I lean forward. There’s a part of me that wants to leave her be. That maybe I should give her some more time, but perhaps this is theonlytime. Now, when she’s too raw to perform, too tired to lie through her teeth.

“Tell me about them.”

“Which one?” Her head lolls to the side, eyes heavy-lidded as they find mine. She’s still groggy, but so effortlessly beautiful that the steam inside me slightly cools.

“Start with the rod in your arm.”

She squints with a distant look. “I can’t remember. They kind of all blend together.”

My jaw flexes. “Then tell me who caused it.”

She lets out a quiet yet bitter laugh, staring off at nothing. “They all blend together, too.”

Her aloofness, her indifference, it grates against my skin like razors. But she’s talking, so I push forward. “Fine. Then tell me what you do remember. Who hurt you?”

She chuckles, and I can’t understand it. “Everyone has hurt me,” she says softly.

“Who, Sinclair? Your brothers? Your father?”

“It was nice not being on the receiving end for once. To be the one spilling blood.”

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