Get out of jail, get yet another crappy criminal henchman job, get his hotshot lawyer ex-girlfriend back. Oh yeah -- and get a murderous demon exorcised from his head. Jason Torres has his route back from rock-bottom perfectly planned out, right? Th...
Dante's graceful silhouette appeared in the door frame, his voice echoing off the bathroom tiles as he and Sylvia murmured between themselves.
I tossed my head around me, scanning the bathroom like a host checking that everything was neat and tidy for a fussy houseguest. The state of the once-beautiful bathroom made my breath catch again.
Blood all over Sylvia's pristine bathroom floor. Blood all over the wall. Blood all over me. So much blood.
Sylvia peeked from behind Dante like he was her shield, twin foreheads furrowed. I uncurled on the blood-spattered bath mat. I was in my underwear, shards of glass from Sylvia's antique bathroom mirror littering the floor around me. It must have looked bad.
Defiant, I swatted away tears. Maybe it didn't look all that bad.
I opted for a nonchalant tone, like the whole fucking world wasn't torn down, burned, ruined. The words came out as choked whimpers all the same. " I broke your mirror. Sorry."
Dante dragged me up and nudged me into the living room. "I'll fix your hand."
A towel appeared around my shoulders. Another slid under me. Kind hands eased me onto the sofa. The kettle roared in the kitchen until the smell of tea and the night-time quiet of the house lulled me. My sobs petered out leaving my throat parched and dry like the Rub'al Khali itself.
Dante wound a bandage over and over my hand, the tenderest, softest fingers working the gauze open and spreading it over the pain. He seemed kinda lulled by it too; when the end of the spool of bandage ran through his fingers he looked up, as if suddenly realizing where he was.
He pinned the bandage, but didn't let me go. He just knelt there next to me in silence, cradling my hand, huge eyes unfocused. I guessed that I'd taken him back to the night he'd lost Steph, and he was reliving it all again somewhere inside his head.
Eventually my tears dried up and Dante led me to my room, guiding me into bed with his quiet-calm precision. He and Sylvia talked in hushed voices in the kitchen while I lay, my mind's eye wandering between memories of Mamá's room from when I was a kid. The worn furniture, the kawaii little ornaments, the clingy clothes that she always wore.
I guessed that Debs had told everyone at María PD the details. That they'd all read the police report about Ana María Torres García, her shitty life, and her shitty death.
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Narrowly catching myself from a tumble, I willed my aching sweaty hide onward. I shouldn't have been climbing, but I needed to think. I needed my favorite spot.
The short traverse to the clock tower platform seemed longer than ever. I staggered down onto the stonework, almost slipping off the ledge. Familiar slim fingers grabbed my wrist and hauled me backward.
I looked up into Dante's face, his beauty somehow heightened by his wide-eyed concern, his hand still latched onto my wrist with a death-grip.
"It's barely seven AM. You need to rest, not climb."
