Page 111 of The Thief
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
alastríona
The pain medication makes everything fuzzy around the edges, but it doesn't make the fear go away.
I've been in this hospital bed for a week now, watching Dublin through windows that might as well be prison bars. Every shadow in the corridor could be one of Trace's men. Every unfamiliar voice makes my heart race.
The knife wound is healing, the doctors say. Clean cut, missed the major organs, should be fine in a few weeks. But my body doesn't feel fine. It feels like I've been hit by a truck, then run over by another one for good measure.
My left arm's in a proper cast now, bright white plaster from wrist to elbow. They had to reset the bone under anesthesia. Apparently, Tony did more damage than just a simple break. Compound fracture, they called it. Six weeks minimum before it's functional again.
Freddie's asleep in the chair beside my bed; his head tilted back at an angle that's going to give him a sore neck when he wakes up. He's been here every day, leaving only when Henry forces him to go shower or eat something resembling a proper meal.
Henry's here too, reading a newspaper in the other chair. He glances up when I shift position, immediately alert.
"How's the pain, love?"
"Better." Lie. Everything hurts, from my ribs to my arm to the knife wound that pulls every time I breathe. But complaining won't help anything.
"The nurse can bring more medication?—"
"I'm fine."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't push, just sets aside his paper and moves his chair closer to the bed.
"We need to talk," he says quietly. "About what comes next."
"Trace is still out there."
He nods, the pain in his eyes making my heart clench. "Yes. We're working on that."
"Working on it, how?"
"Every contact we have is looking for him. Every favor we're owed, every debt outstanding. He can't hide forever."
"Can't he? He has been planning this for months, possibly years. He'll have hidey-holes, safe houses, and people we don't know about."
Henry's quiet for a moment, considering. "Probably. But he's also angry and emotional. Men like that make mistakes."
"What if he doesn't? What if he disappears and I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder?"
"Then we make sure you're protected. Round-the-clock security, safe houses, whatever it takes."
"That's not living. That's just existing."
"It's surviving. Sometimes that's enough."
But is it? Is a life spent hiding, jumping at shadows, worth living? Or would I be better off taking my chances, refusing to let fear turn me into a prisoner?
"I'm sorry," Henry says suddenly.
"For what?"
"For all of this. For bringing you into our world, for making you a target. You were safe in Belfast, hidden away where none of this could touch you. I should have left you there."
"Should you? Because I wasn't really living in Belfast either. I was just... waiting. For something to change, for something to matter."
"And now?"
