Chapter 57

Almost as soon as the light went out and the scratching stopped, Rosie flopped into a horrible stillness.

Blood seeped from her nose.

Thea gathered her up and stroked the hair away from her face. ‘Rory?’

He put his finger to his lips again and carefully peered out of the window.

‘I think it’s gone—’ he began but stopped when he turned and saw Rosie’s limp body.

Rory’s expression as he unclipped and unwound the padding told Thea all she needed to know. She could only manage one glance at the seeping, raw-meat mess of Rosie’s eye before she had to turn away, but she couldn’t escape the smell. Rosie shivered, a sick heat coming from her.

‘We shouldn’t have moved her,’ he said, slumping next to them, his head in his hands.

‘What do we do?’ Thea gripped his arm.

So far, there had always been something to do, hadn’t there? Run, hide, hit … kill. And she’d done it.

There had to be something. Rory hung his head.

‘Rosie?’ she said gently. She thought that maybe Rosie’s eyelids flickered, but in the shadows it was hard to tell. She murmured something incoherent and new blood seeped from her nose. Thea held on tighter.

Something squeezed at Thea’s throat, making her light-headed.

What happened next did not happen quickly, nor was it peaceful.

‘We should get help!’

But there was no help to get, no one left but the two of them, kneeling in the dust.

Sometimes, Rosie knew what was happening, and they were the worst times. A hand like a claw, a rasping voice that tried for words but ended in a whimper.

‘It will be okay,’ Thea soothed over and over, that word, okay, said so many times that it bruised and softened until it tasted rotten in her mouth.

Thea held her the whole time.

She gave up on words. Instead, she just lay down next to Rosie and put her head close to hers, holding her hand and kissing her cheek, letting her know someone was there with her, even though it was dark, and where Rosie was going was darker still.

Eventually, words stopped and only breathing was left.

At some point, Thea moved to rest her head on Rosie’s chest, listening to her weak, jumpy heartbeat.

She stayed that way for what felt like a very long time, each beat heard a relief, a rhythm and a song with only one lyric, a plea: ‘Keep beating.’

Until it stopped.

She’d held Rosie the entire time, but death is a letting go and, after what could have been hours, could have been days, finally, there was no other choice …

Thea let go.