Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(33)

He smirked, and I saw Jonathan’s face again, in his one-sided grin.

“You think because Patalano’s brain dead already you can get off. If you play the distressed woman, of course. And who would doubt you? As his wife, you have more to gain from him dying than living. And with the Drazen machine behind you? How could any judge even send it to a jury, much less convict?”

Murder. It was the word he’d avoided.

“I’m sure it won’t be that easy.” Despite the conversation, I was struck by a thought I couldn’t get out of my head. I hadn’t even wanted to date Jonathan, and there I was, ready to commit murder for him. “For you, maybe. You’re Teflon.”

“More well-seasoned cast iron,” he joked. “But what’s in it for me?”

“There’s nothing I can offer you but Jonathan’s life.”

He nodded then, with a slight twitch of his hand, indicated the entirety of the cafeteria, and with that twitch, he told me that Jonathan’s life, simply spared wasn’t enough. He would still be relegated to the cafeteria at Sequoia Hospital.

“I’m no martyr,” he said. “My relationship with some of my family is painful. I don’t want any of them leaving this world a stranger.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything I can say that will change his mind.”

“Let me know when you figure it out.”

That was it. That was the deal I was offered. Get Declan in to see Jonathan, give him a heart attack that’ll kill him for sure. Don’t get Declan in, and watch Jonathan die while some brainless mobster down the hall kept a heart alive for someone else.

CHAPTER 32.

MONICA

I stood outside Jonathan’s door, listening to the symphony of instruments that kept him alive. I hated them. They intruded, bullying me into remembering my place when he and I were alone together.

He faced away from the door, the tendons of his neck and the line of his jaw pale in the morning light. He turned when I tiptoed in, and held his hand out for me. I kissed it, then his lips.

“Goddess.” His voice was shredded, his breath was audible. I’d die myself if I had to watch him deteriorate like this.

“How do you feel?”

“With you here?” He touched my cheek, his fingertips electric on my face, even in his condition. “Like f**king, but probably a bad idea.”

“I have a headache anyway.”

“How does it feel to be Mrs. Drazen?”

“You didn’t need to marry me to protect me from your father.”

“He destroys everything of mine he’s ever touched. And look, he’s already stepped in to get control of you.”

This was going to be hard. How could I bring up seeing Declan now? He’d be convinced his father was a puppetmaster pulling my strings.

“I married you for the right reasons. Not out of desperation.”

“Desperation’s all I have. There’s something unfinished in my life, and it’s us. I needed you to be bound to me, in front of heaven and earth. I’m glad we did it.”

“I’m afraid I gave you permission to die.”

“I don’t need your permission.”

He seemed so collected when he said that, as if he was totally okay with leaving me, and marrying me was just him tidying up his affairs. I felt a spark of rage, and clenched my teeth. But as his thumb stroked my jaw, the anger melted into irritation, then mild annoyance, and into a liquid place that had been the base coat of my anger all day. The rush of sadness that came felt physical in its force, washing over me, pulling me into an undertow of grief. He was dead already. He knew it. A simple fact that I hadn’t come to terms with, holding out this ridiculous hope for a sickening accident. A dead man stroked my cheek, and the awakening between my legs from that touch was a ghastly perversion. I wanted a corpse. He looked ready for a coffin, peaceful at last, hands crossed over his chest, left ring finger bulging and swollen around his keyring band.

I broke like an egg, splatting yolk and clear albumin, eyes falling apart under the weight of my tears, my nose clogged, lungs kicking air in hitched gulps. He touched my tears, but couldn’t do anything else. He could barely lift his own head. I turned my wet, ugly, twisted face onto his palm and let him feel my sobbing contortions.

“Goddess, please,” he said.

But I was past the point of reason. “I’d kill for you, Jonathan. If I could—“

“Shh. That’s enough.”

I couldn’t finish speaking anyway, by breathing was so charged with sobs. I swallowed a pint of gunk that had collected in my throat and squeezed my eyes shut until I stopped crying long enough to get a sentence out.

“If I can, I will,” I said. “You mark my words.”

“Okay. Just, hush.”

“I’m going to suggest something. I don’t want you to have a heart attack over it.” I snapped up tissues and wiped my face. My eyes felt swollen and pained.

“Funny girl.”

“Your father has been in the cafeteria for a week to be near you.”

“Fuck, Monica. No. What did he say to you?”

I put my hands on either side of him and leaned over his face, blocking the light from the window.

“I’ll make a deal with the devil to save you.”