Page 62 of Once a Villain
She glanced at Jamie beside her. He was the only one still inthe room with her—other than Frankie and Tom’s cat, Sylvie, who were snoozing on the table, their feud briefly paused in sleep.
The others had split up to search the rest of the house for books. Joan hoped they were having better luck than she was.
“I can’t even see anymore,” she admitted.
Jamie groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Me either.”
“Headache?”
Jamie attempted a smile, but it was wan. “No, I’m all right.” The lamplight had put his face in shadow, hollowing his cheeks. He wasn’t anywhere near all right.
“Jamie...” Joan hardly knew what to say. When Nick had killed the Hunts, it was like he’d killed her too. She’d never forget the depth of that pain. There were no words for it. “I’m so sorry about your family. I’m so sorry Eleanor did that.”
Jamie’s mouth started to crumple. He fought it and won. “I should have guessed they were gone when we couldn’t find them.” He swallowed visibly. “I just... I keep wondering... What if we can’t break this cipher? What if we can’t stop her from locking down this timeline?”
Joan put her hand over his impulsively, and Jamie turned his own hand so he could squeeze hers.
“I can’tthink,” Jamie whispered. “It doesn’t matter what I look for in all these books—letters or words. I can’t find a meaning. I’m so scared I’m missing something because I’m tired. And—And because...” Because he was thinking about his family.
“Why don’t you stop for a bit?” Joan whispered to him. “Just close your eyes.”
Jamie took a shaky breath and nodded. “Why don’t you take a break too?” he suggested.
Joan was too wired to sleep, but she knew Jamie was right—she should take her own advice. Better to rest than to miss something because she was tired. “I think I’ll go outside,” she said, nodding. “Get some fresh air.”
“Don’t leave the estate, though,” Jamie said, suppressing a yawn. “Aaron won’t be able to protect you if you step outside Oliver territory.”
The house was silent as Joan padded downstairs, and then through a long gallery with portraits of Olivers on the wall. It felt strange to have the run of a house as huge and luxurious as this. She walked through the conservatory, humid and warm even on a cold night, and smelling sweetly of night-blooming jasmine.
Joan pushed open the door into the formal garden outside. Frigid air stung her eyes. It felt good—like a splash of cold water on her face.
She lifted her head to feel the wind as she walked down to the river. She chose a spot where the hill started to slope down, putting her blissfully out of view of the house and all those Olivers. Then she sat on the damp grass and let the cold seep into her, clearing her head. The river flowed below, the slow movement soothing.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there when she heard soft footsteps above her. She turned sharply, anticipating a security officer. But the silhouette was achingly familiar. And the last person she’d expected to see.
Nick.
The boy who haunted her, awake and in dreams. He walked toward her now, hands in his pockets, his square shoulders unmistakable, even in the shadows.
Joan’s chest fluttered, as it always did when he was near. Her body didn’t understand that he didn’t belong to her anymore. That he never would again. She wondered why he’d come out here. Maybe he’d wanted a moment to himself as well....
She pushed up from the ground. “I should go back.”
“No, please.” He gestured for her to sit back down. “I came looking for you. Can we talk?”
“Talk?” It was too dark to see much of him as he lowered himself to the grass beside her. Her heart thudded painfully. This was it, then. They were going to make explicit what had been unsaid between them when they’d arrived here.
I don’t trust you anymore. I hate what I did for you. I can’t bear that you hate me now. We need to go our separate ways.She wasn’t braced enough for this; she was too tired, and too close to that fade-out today to handle it.
Nick was silent. His long fingers smoothed the grass in front of them. Joan could feel herself tensing in anticipation of what he was going to say. Then he whispered, “I miss you.”
Joan heard her own sharp intake of breath. She’d expectedI hate you. She’d said that to him once—after he’d killed her family.I know, he’d said.
No, not him. Another version of him. Sometimes, all the versions of him merged in her head.
“I miss talking to you,” Nick said.
“I miss you too,” she said honestly. She missed being with him. She missed him all the time. Every moment of the day. There was a hollow inside her where he’d once been.
