Chapters (42)
- TITLE PAGE
- COPYRIGHT PAGE
- DEDICATION PAGE
- CONTENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As I limped from the room, I could have sworn I heard Jim whisper, “Thank you.”
TEN
TEN
I WALKED UP THE stairs, practicing a little speech in my head, very similar to the one I’d just given Jim, since it had seemed to work out well. Not only for him but for me, too. It had helped me realize where my focus needed to be. What Malachi had done was shocking and tragic. It couldn’t happen again. We’d have to plan and train so that it didn’t. But … it was also an accident. He’d burst in on a dangerous situation and had made a mistake in the heat of battle. It was an error any of us could have made. He needed to know I understood that.
Two of the bedroom doors on the second floor were open. One room was messy, the other neat. Probably Jim’s and Henry’s, in that order. And the third door was closed. I went over to it and knocked.
“Not now, please,” he called.
“It’s me.”
Silence. For, like, a whole minute. Enough to make my heart pound harder. Then, “Come in.”
I opened the door. He was sitting at a desk. He had changed into track pants and a T-shirt, and his damp black hair was sticking up every which way, like he’d just been rubbing it with the towel that was draped over his shoulder. His face was still pale. His arms and hands were red and raw. And there were little lines etched around his mouth, like he’d aged a few years in the last hour.
“You should call Raphael to heal you,” he said. “That bump on the side of your head looks quite bad. And you’re limping.”
“I might, later. Talking to you was more important.”
He winced and looked away.
“Malachi,” I said, reaching out to him. “I know you must be feeling really bad—”
“You have no idea,” he said in a strained voice, rising from his chair. “No idea.”
“Okay, but I can imagine. And I can see it on your face.”
His nostrils flared as he let out a breath. “It won’t happen again. That I can promise you.”
My fingers stretched out to touch his, but he laced them behind his head and stared at my hand like it was a poisonous snake. I cleared my throat. “I know you don’t want it to happen again, but we need to talk about how to prevent it—”
“I already know how to prevent it,” he said in a quiet voice.
“You do? That’s, um, good.” I’d expected to have to give him a pep talk, and he seemed to have already managed it for himself. “Can you tell me your plan?”