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Right up to and through death.
See, I had been right about her that afternoon in her father's office.
A creature could only take so much abuse.
Before it snapped.
Before it ripped out your throat.
In Helen's case... literally.
There was something poetic about that, something I didn't say to her, knowing she was plagued with uncertainty, fear, and guilt.
Even if not only me, but a member of the local police force, thought she had done what she needed to do, that she wasn't guilty in the traditional sense.
Quite frankly, as I sat alone in my shitty motel room in pain, I had already made a decision to handle it. In a permanent way. In a way that ended with guns, bullets, and gaping wounds that could never be repaired.
As soon as I was well enough.
Because there would be no freedom for either of us while Christopher and Michael Eames breathed.
Michael was still breathing, sure, but I doubted they were going to let him back out on the streets. Not when they had been wanting to take him down for years, way back since when he beat a man into a coma when he was just seventeen, but no one had been able to make any kind of charge stick.
A double homicide with evidence that was irrefutable to any jury and judge, yeah, that meant he was likely going to spend the next fifty years behind bars.
Save for a prison break, she would never have to worry again.
We would never have to worry again.
We could finally move forward, start something, something without any fear or worry surrounding it.
Something real.
Lasting.
It would take some work.
Aside from the watches she stole, Helen had nothing to her name but clothes.
I had an alright savings, but a fair chunk of the money I got from Eames went toward the suits he demanded we wear, lodging, car repair.
I could put down first, last, and insurance deposits. And that was about it.
Maybe the watches could get us some furniture, food to hold us over until I got a job.
I hated the idea that we'd have to start with so little. But, I reminded myself, the big house aside, Helen wasn't spoiled like her brother. The struggle wouldn't affect her the same way it might some spoiled princess used to designer clothes and yearly vacations, huge presents every holiday.
Someday, I would give her all that.
And more.
She'd never want for anything.
She wouldn't have to work if she didn't want to.
She could stay home raising those babies she told me she wanted, that I wanted too. In a big house we owned outright. Full of the love that she had never known, that I craved as well.
I would bust my fucking ass day and night to give her that.
To give it to myself as well.
Because, quite frankly, I couldn't think of anything better than coming home after a day of work to see her in the kitchen waiting for me. I'd bend her backward, kiss her like I'd just returned from a war, then head upstairs to kiss my kids goodnight.
That was the dream.
No.
The goal.
Dreams were these watery, undefined wishings.
This wasn't a wish, a hope.
This was something I would work toward. Every day. Every night.
Until I made it a reality.
This woman, I decided, turning my head on the pillow - even such a small motion sending a shock of pain through my system - to look at her, her hair waving a bit now that it was fully dry, her lips parted ever so slightly, her dark lashes resting softly on her cheeks, my future wife, yeah, she was going to have the life she fucking deserved.
"What do you mean no?" I asked the next morning over the free packets of plain instant oatmeal, and just as unappetizing instant coffee, watching her roll her eyes at me.
Roll her eyes.
Like talking about setting up an apartment was the most asinine idea she had ever heard.
"I think that it's a waste of a huge chunk of that money."
"A roof is a waste of money."
"We have a roof here," she said, shrugging.
"This is a sleep-and-fuck motel, babe," I objected, wondering if maybe she was still in a bit of shock. If she was just feeling safe here, and that was why she seemed reluctant to leave.
"While I was making us this grand breakfast," she said, sending me a wry smile, "I had some time to think."
"About?"
"Options. One is what you suggested. The typical thing someone does in this situation."
"But you have a more unconventional idea," I guessed.
"Exactly."
"Care to share?"
"This lovely motel," she started, sarcasm heavy in her words, at least reassuring me that she wasn't losing her fucking mind, "costs thirty dollars a night. Thirty dollars a night is what I make serving tables. Sometimes more at the bar."
"Okay," I said, brows drawing low, not sure where she was going with this. But it was sounding like she planned to work seven nights a week just to pay to have a roof and a bed. And... fuck no.
