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17
Finlay looks at me so intently, like I’m something so precious he can scarcely believe I’m giving him the time of day. His gaze is the kind of pressure under which diamonds are formed, his interest bright and powerful as he watches me closely.
I take a deep breath. I’ve never told anyone about the Death Room before, about the shock of finding Finlay’s dossier curled up on the side table of the Prime Minister.
There are, of course,otherthings that happened in the Death Room. But that’s another event I’ve taken delight in burying as deep inside me as possible, unable to confront head-on.
“It was in the manor. The dossier. I saw it in the manor.”
Finlay’s gaze doesn’t become any less penetrating. It never wavers from me once. His brow quirks, like he’s trying to figure me out, determine if I’m pulling a fast one. “The manor?” he repeats slowly.
“It was in one of the rooms in the wing we weren’t allowed in. I saw it.”
It sounds like a made-up tale, something a child would conjure for attention. I have no evidence for this, just like I have no evidence Callum Wells sought to deliberately harm Luke this afternoon.
Even Finlay gives me a strange look, scrutinizing me. “I see why Rory calls ye his saint. Ye say the weirdest things wi’ the straightest face, and somehow I end up believin’ ye…”
“I’m not making it up!”
“I know ye’re no’,” Finlay soothes. “D’ye know whit became o’ the original?”
When I open my mouth, no sound comes out. Images flash through my mind instead — an unyielding hand clamped around my wrist, a yowl, a scuffle, a steely voice calling me abitchor abrat, I can’t remember which, because from the tone it could have been either… and yet that entire evening is filtered through burning strong whisky and the most peculiar, shameful desire.
I only liked him because he looks like Rory. That’s all.
“Jessa?” Finlay prods, and he sounds so loving and tender in contrast to the toxic corruption of my memories.
It’s a struggle to meet Finlay’s assessing green eyes anymore. If he looks in that quiet, calculating way of his for long enough, I get the impression I might sabotage myself with the chiefs by exposing all the angst in my existence — every raw, painful particle — and then he might just see how fucked-up and broken I truly am. It’s easy to throw on a Lochkelvin uniform and pretend to be part of the well-groomed elite, but Finlay has a knack for seeing beyond facades, and inside I’m in shambles.
Like a revered statue, Luke’s sleeping face is the only thing that grounds my whirling thoughts, and so I admire his calmness in the hope it reflects on me.
“I took it.” The words wrestle with my tongue. I’m holding back on saying more because the last thing I want is Finlay’s judgment in something I ultimately failed in — but then, he’s been so involved in every aspect of this rotten fight that he deserves the truth, because despite my protests and vulnerabilities, I supposeeveryonedeserves the truth. “I took the dossier and… I tried. I tried to stop the whole thing — I did — and it didn’t work, it didn’t fuckingwork.”
I bury my head in my hands. It’s the most I’ve ever spoken about that night. I can’t even look at Finlay — nor at Luke anymore, who I’d been trying to save at the time. Trying to save Luke, again and again, to make up for my earlier negligence. How often had I held the weight of that dossier in my hand, felt its power between the pages? How many opportunities had I to stop this madness? But no. Like an idiot, I chose to go against my gut and passed it onto Benji, who passed it onto Rory’s dad — and the one time I tried to destroy it, the only thing that ended up destroyed had been me.
“Whit d’ye mean, youtried?”
Every word that comes out my mouth is sheer anguish. “Oscar Munro was there and I… I threw it at the fire.” With this explanation finally put into the universe, I glance between my hands at Finlay. His eyes widen significantly. Before he gets too excited, I quickly add, “I missed.”
But Finlay doesn’t look any less awed. “You didwhit?”
“I misse—”
“No. Before that.” Finlay shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to process it. “Big Oscar Munro was there, and you just went and fuckin’ tossed his baby intae the fire?” His jaw drops, his gaze focused squarely on me. “Wait —whywas Oscar Munro there?”
“I… bumped into him.” It sounds like I’m speaking a foreign language, every word slow and stilted. “We spoke. Briefly. For a bit. And… that’s when I saw it.” I bite my lip. Talking about Oscar Munro is the very last thing I want to do; it’s as though the roaring fire from that night resides inside my stomach, turning me hot and queasy at the memory of him. Touching me. Attempting to kiss me. Calling me names. Me, for some fucked-up reason,craving it… “I had to take my chance. You’d said you wanted it gone, that it’s what you would have done—”
Finlay blinks, startled. “Sothat’swhit ye were askin’ me for! I thought that was weird!” He stares at me, still with that stunned expression. “Oh my God, sassenach. Tae dae whit ye did, you have some fuckin’ giant swingin’ balls on ye.”
“I prefer ovaries,” I tell him numbly. “But thanks.”
Finlay’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. Still, though, I can’t meet his eyes. I failed. I could have stopped this whole circus, shut it down. To know that, at one point in my life, I’d possessed unimaginable power, and that all I did was squander it… It hurts. It hurts so much, knowing that every bad thing that’s happened since then is down to my direct inaction. That Luke, lying here injured right now, is ultimately because of my failure.
“I dinnae think ye get it,” Finlay says, leaving his chair to approach me. Only then do I finally look at him. As he meets me on the other side of Luke, he crouches down in front of me. He raises a hand and tucks a strand of hair around my ear. “Whit ye did took an insane amount o’ courage.”
My voice is bitter when I say, “Didn’t work, though, did it?”
“Does it matter? There were chances for a’ o’ us tae stop this bastard thing gettin’ oot o’ control. But we didnae know how bad it’d get — no’ even me, and I beat myself up everynightfor my part in a’ this.” He pauses, taking my hand in his. “Ye get blinded when ye think ye’re fightin’ for justice, when really ye’re just somebody else’s pawn.” His mouth gives an ironic twist. “Ask me how I know.”
