Page 29 of Scythe & Sparrow
“I saw a flyer on the bulletin board outside Wesley Pharmacy the other day. Thought I might check it out. Imagine my surprise when I called and Sandra mentioned your name.”
“You were not surprised at all, were you?”
“The doily kind of gave you away.”
“Much less lethally cool than the piña colada scent giving away an eyeball-stabbing incident.”
Rose shrugs around her crutch pads. “I dunno. Those crochet hooks could do some damage.”
“And while we’re on the topic of crochet, a sex swing? Seriously?”
“I figured it would be a good distraction. It worked.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I’ve been living with you for a week, and I killed a guyyesterdayand you’re just figuring that out now? I still think we need to revisit the conversation about your credentials, Dr. Kane.” Though I try to give her a chastising look, it doesn’t really stick, not when I see so much worry and unease hidden beneath her teasing smile. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Always,” I say.
It takes her a long moment of watching me before she says, “You could have turned me in. Or called the cops. You could have driven me straight to the station.”
I shrug when she says nothing further. “I could have, sure.”
“So why didn’t you? Why did you help me?”
“Because you asked me to,” I say, and her whispered plea in my clinic resurrects itself from where it lies just beneath the surface of my thoughts. I’m sure she has no idea how much it has stuck with me. How sometimes I still hear it in my dreams.
Rose watches me, doubt written into the crease that appears between her brows. “Most people would have said no.”
“I might look like most people. But I’m not.”
“Trust me,” she says with an eye roll, “youdo notlook like most people.” A dusting of blush rises in her cheek, and she turns away. Even though I know I shouldn’t let it, my heart still flips over in my chest with this quiet admission that she might look at me and like what she sees. Rose waits until her blush is gone before she faces me once more. “This whole thing with Eric … the river … What if this all goes tits up?”
What if it does?
I’ve asked myself that many times over the past two days. Tried to imagine what life would be like if anyone discovered my role in Eric Donovan’s demise. But the thing that surprises me the most is how much I think about the opposite question. “What if it doesn’t?”
“But you could get in so much shit.”
“You could get in even more shit.”
“Yeah,” Rose says, drawing the word out. “That’s definitely the truth.”
“This thing with guys like Eric … have you been at it for a while?” I ask, thinking of the plants and the postcard with the cryptic note on her dresser.
“Kind of.” Her head swivels, and she squints into the distance, her gaze landing across the street on a couple plucking weeds from a flower bed near their driveway. “Maybe not the time and place to get into details, but I used to just supply the means, if you know what I’m talking about. But now I’m trying to take on a more … active … role. Didn’t work out once.”
“You mean Matt?”
Rose shakes her head and looks away, but not before I catch a glimpse of a glassy sheen in her eyes. My hand tightens around the straps of our bags to keep myself from reaching for her. Before I can say anything reassuring, she takes a deep and cleansing breath, then manufactures a brittle smile. “Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own home. Would you like me to go?”
“Stop asking me that. Please. I’m not uncomfortable with you there.” I leave out the part about how strange it was to wake up to her absence today. Or how much I like what she’s done to the guest room. “I’m not used to it. But I don’t dislike it.”
“Round of applause for Dr. McSpicy Beast Mode on his exemplary performance of a compliment,” Rose booms in a theatrical ringmaster tone, pausing long enough to let go of a crutch and sweep her hand toward an imaginary audience. “And now for our next magic trick, witness Rose Evans’s disappearing self-esteem.”
Though I snort a laugh at theoohs andaahs she mimics from her circus spectators, my stomach still drops with the weight of her words. “I likeyou—”
“I can sure tell—”
