Page 30 of Dearly Departed

My eyes are gritty with exhaustion, but as long as we’re in this cabin, I’m going to be as human as possible. I pull my travel soap and toothpaste out of my bag and step into the bathroom.

There’s a small flameless candle perched on the basin that I hadn’t noticed before. With the flick of a switch, the bathroom is bathed in fake candlelight. It’s as good as the real thing.

The sink works.

I discover that the toilet works, too. It’s normal. It’s so normal that I could cry, but I don’t.

The shower works.

It’s a far cry from the bathroom in Jacob’s apartment in New York, where he took me to recover from escaping my father. Jacob made it his life’s mission to draw me bubble baths, which were never complete—in his words—without music and champagne and little fans of fruit arranged on plates and waited for me on the purpose-built shelves that went with the tub.

But I have soap, and a tiny bottle of decent shampoo, and there’s a stack of scratchy washcloths and worn towels, so I have everything I need. All the sweat from wearing the hood of my packable rain jacket washes down the drain along with the dirt from the forest. The anxiety goes, too. Raymond Harris might still jump out at us from behind a tree, but it’s not going to happen in this bathroom. I’m too tired to spend long in there, anyway, so any murderers lurking in the woods won’t have time to find a way in.

When I come out, Jacob’s leaning against the wall, his face glowing in the light of another flameless candle, which he holds in his hand. He’s turned down the blankets on the bed, and the covers are open to white sheets.

“The bed’s fine,” he says. “We should sleep.”

“I had toothpaste and soap in my bag. And I left my shampoo in the shower. The water gets pretty warm.”

He lets his head fall back, eyes closed in ecstasy. “Have I ever told you that you are the living embodiment of perfection?”

“Now you have.” My face warms up. We’ve been through the night from hell, and I still want him to say those things to me.

He really is my passionate hobby.

I don’t get into the bed, because I know I’ll pass out immediately. I change into my spare tank top and panties—never travel without them—and wait for him to finish up. There’s a single decorative item in the cabin, and it’s a big wooden bowl hanging on a peg near the table.

Jacob’s efficient in the shower and emerges a couple of minutes later with his towel slung low over his hips and one of the candles cradled in his palm. My mouth waters at the sight of him. I can’t not want him.

The heartache is stronger, though. He’s too thin, with bruises under his eyes and sharp cheekbones that didn’t look nearly so bad in the light of the plane.

Or maybe he’s gotten worse since we landed. It hasn’t been the easiest night. The cut on his head isn’t actively bleeding, but it doesn’t look. The fall from the wing of the plane didn’t help. And he said a few weird things while we walked.

Jacob tosses the towel over one of the chairs and digs through his bag. He finds a fresh pair of boxers, pulls them on, and drags me to the bed.

And then he curls up around me like he thought he’d never get to do it again, his back rounding and his arm slung over my waist in a tight grip. We’ve slept together lots of times, but he never seemed this desperate.

“Don’t move,” he says.

“Where would I go?”

Jacob doesn’t answer.

“Jacob?”

Nothing.

He’s asleep, and we haven’t even pulled up the blankets.

I should probably do that. To protect us from the air and anything hiding under the bed.

But Jacob’s warm, his arm already heavy in his sleep, and I don’t want to do a single thing to disturb him. If we get cold, one of us will deal with the blankets.

I fall asleep faster than I ever have, my heart light. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to be fine.

10

JACOB