"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." —Matthew 11:28
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Trixie's brain was on autopilot as she clambered out of the St. Catherine's confessional, her body light and unreal. It wasn't until she was raising her hand to knock that she realized she'd arrived at the Shelby residence, the familiar horseshoe over the door staring back at her as it curved over the spyhole in the door.
What was she doing? It was past midnight by now. Trixie blinked herself awake, turning over her shoulder and finding that Birmingham was dark and miserable as usual. Above, the sky was lightened by the smoke hanging over the city. Still grey. Always grey.
She needed to talk to Tommy. Or somebody. She just didn't—she didn't want to be alone if she could help it. Trixie dug into her purse for the keychain, finding the door to the Shelby house, and turning the door open. Polly had given her the key to the betting shop early on, since she'd be opening and closing regularly, but Trixie had only received the house key last year. She'd never needed to use it before. If she knocked, they would probably answer, but she didn't have it in her arms to knock with the amount of force that would be necessary to pull the Shelbys out of sleep, or their drunken stupor.
Inside the house, Trixie found the fire in the living room had been put out. She knew where each of their bedrooms were, just from wandering the house when it had been deserted by the boys for the war. Tommy slept on the top floor, his room small. She'd passed by it once, while fetching papers for Polly during the war, but it had been mostly desolate, and by the time he'd returned, she'd been happy to push the memory from her mind.
Trixie knew this house, she realized. Without even noticing, she'd begun dodging the stairs that creaked, the parts of the railing that had given her splinters. She was on the top floor before she even knew what she was doing, her hand on the knob, twisting and pushing the door open.
On the other side, Tommy had a gun cocked in her direction. Trixie's breath hitched.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, lowering the revolver and setting it on the mattress beside him.
An insult was on her tongue before she could help it. "So you're allowed to show up at my apartment unannounced, but I can't return the favor?" He stiffened. "Were you sleeping?" Trixie asked, as if she hadn't just burst into his bedroom at one in the morning, as if he wasn't reaching for the lamp at this very second, as if he didn't look painfully boyish in his nightshirt.
