One at a time, my feet hit the floor, and I pull myself up. Each heavy step feels harder than the last, and I hardly make it to my kitchen before acute pain stretches through my limbs. Bracing myself on the counter, I swallow hard and fight the irrational torrent as it rips through my soul, pricking my eyes and closing my throat.
“Stupid,” I whisper, voice raw from the unique sensation of overpowering and useless grief. “You’re such an idiot.”
If I’d never agreed to lure Malcolm out to that alleyway, I wouldn’t have lost my crystal heart. This wouldn’t be happening.I wouldn’t feel like this. I’m just getting what I deserve for being willing to help take a life.
Because no matter how terrible Malcolm is, it’s not my job to mete out justice. I’m no better. I’m no less terrible.
I’m outside my jurisdiction, operating beyond my paygrade in a cesspool of hypocrisy.
This punishment of losing my comfort item is the wake-up call, the condemnation, thesuck it up and be a better person. Or else.
Who even knows if Malcolm is as bad as I think he is? Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s only so bad with me. And maybe—just maybe—it’s because I’m the one who deserves to suffer beneath his hand. Maybe he exists to bring justice against me.
After all, haven’t I always been bad? I can try and hide my dark soul in rivulets of white, but nothing is going to change how wrong I am.
Nothing will ever make me good enough.
I am, fundamentally, broken.
And, no matter how many rules I try to follow, that won’t change.
Before I can get a grip long enough to put myself to bed, my doorbell rings, drawing my vacant attention past my living room toward it. I can’t remember anything I’m expecting, and it’s a bit late for visitors. Assuming I ever have any, when I don’t.
Yet, someone knocks.
Then someone calls, “Dove?”
My heart lurches.
Malcolm tries the handle, finds it locked, and rings the doorbell again, calling louder, “Darling? Are you home, sweet dove?”
Fighting for stability, I brush my hands down my dress, feel the fabric of my skirt, and realize I’ve already taken my gloves off for the day.
Still.
If he’shere…now…then…
Is there a chance?
Could this mean…
Has he really brought my crystal heart home?
Shaking, I head to my front door and open it.
Imposing and dark, Malcolm beams at me in the hall. Then, he lifts the tiny clear gem. Voice warm, he says, “I found her.”
My soul quivers.
“Someone did pick her up, but I found them.”
“You…” I breathe.
“I’ve been going all over downtown, talking to everyone I’ve passed, trying to figure out who may have seen her. Finally, it occurred to me I should also stop in with the shop owners, since they’re the most consistent people traversing through the area, so this evening, I went from store to store on the street we walked, then from store to store on the street over. And, what do you know? There’s a record shop whose owner lives in an apartment above the salon. He walks through the alley we were in on his way to work, and he picked her up the morning after we watched the sunset. She was right there, on the counter, when I walked in.” He holds her out in his palm. “Here.”
Lips parted, I stare at her lying there against his bare skin.
His head tilts, and he looks at the clear stone. “Ah.” He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out his gloves. “Guess we’re not there yet. One mome—”
