The Winter Sister(57)

Ben pumped some brown paper from the towel dispenser and held it under the running faucet. “Here,” he said. “This will help.” Pushing my hair to one side, he held the cool, wet paper to the back of my neck.

For a moment, the dampness soothed me; it eased the prickling darkness that was swarming my vision. But then, registering the slight pressure of Ben’s palm as he cupped the base of my skull, I saw Persephone in my mind, pulling back her shirt to expose a fresh purple bruise just beginning to burn beneath her skin.

I jerked away from him, and the wet paper towel slapped onto the tile. I took in the door with its silver lock, and I reached forward to snap the lever backward. “What are you doing?” I demanded.

Ben bent over to pick up the towel and tossed it into the trash can. “Nothing,” he said. “You just got so pale all of a sudden, I thought you were going to faint.” He gestured toward the door. “Sorry—I locked that out of habit, I guess.”

When I didn’t respond, he put his hand on the door handle and opened it a little. “Do you want to go back out there?” he asked. “It’s just—you got kind of loud, and . . . the cancer center isn’t really the place for phrases like ‘killed my sister.’?”

He laughed then, quickly and uncomfortably, but it was still a kick to my stomach.

“So which is it?” I shot at him. “I looked like I was going to faint, or I was too loud?”

He blinked at me—once, twice—and then he returned his hand to his side, letting the bathroom door fall closed. “Both,” he said. His eyes roved over my face. “How are you feeling now? Do you want to sit down for a second?”

He reached behind me and closed the lid on the toilet seat. Feeling ridiculous and stupid, but also a little unsteady, I sat down on top of it and put my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands.

“Did you have breakfast this morning?” he asked.

I pictured Mom’s plate, the food only pushed around instead of eaten, and how my stomach had growled as I scraped the cold, dry leftovers into the trash just before we left for the hospital.

“We only had two eggs left,” I muttered. “I need to go shopping.”

“Oh man,” Ben said, “I hate grocery shopping. Such a pain in the ass.”

I lifted my head just long enough to give him a look, and he took a small step back in response, leaning against the counter. “Sorry,” he said. “Not important. But, look, now that we’re on the same page about Tommy, I’m just curious—what made you come around? It was just last week that you were accusing me of killing her.”

I stared at the floor and mumbled toward the tiles, “A lot has changed since last week.”

“Okay,” Ben said, his feet shifting. “Like what?”

I hesitated, unsure of how much to tell him, how much to admit. He was Ben Emory—all I had to do was think his name and my pulse would quicken—but there was so much swimming in my head right then, so much lapping at my brain and ready to overflow.

“Well,” I said, “that picture you showed me. You were right about it. You were right about my mom and your dad.”

“About how they dated?”

“Yes, that. But also how he hurt her. How they were together and it ended badly and that’s why my mom never wanted Persephone to be with you.”

I heard Ben take a breath. “Shit.” My gaze was still focused on the grout between the tiles—it wasn’t safe, in such a small space, to look him in the eye—but I knew that his body had stiffened.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That’s not a very articulate response. It’s just—” He ran his hand over his face, his features sagging as he dragged his fingers against them. “I wish she’d told us that back then. I’m not my father.”

There was a sudden edge, cool but sharp, that slid into his voice, and it was enough to remind me of where I was, who I was with. In that tiny space stood a man who, murderer or not, had once hurt my sister. I picked my head up to glance at the door. It was only a few feet away from me. I could reach it in less than a second if I had to.

“Why didn’t she just explain that to Persephone?” he asked, his tone softening. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

My eyes coasted back toward the floor, though my body remained alert. “She said it hurt too much to talk about it.”

Ben didn’t say anything to that, and even I couldn’t blame him.

“I don’t know,” I continued, more to myself than to him. “Maybe I should have done more—back then. Maybe I should have questioned things. I mean, Persephone was almost eighteen when my mom saw you guys together—how much longer could the dating rule really apply to her? I should have found that odd, but instead I just accepted it. I just trusted that my mom knew what was best.”

“You were a kid,” Ben said. “That’s what you were supposed to do.”

I shrugged. “I guess,” I said. Then I straightened a little. “I’m just surprised I never figured this out. I mean, even after she died, there were signs.”

“Signs? What kind of signs?”

I flicked my eyes toward his face, then quickly looked at the trash can. “You weren’t at Persephone’s wake, were you?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. I’d spent those brutal hours with my fists clenched, my eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd to see if he dared to show up.