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“No. It just needs more thought.”
“How many more years’ worth of thought would you like to give it?” Gutsy. I smirk a little, unsure where this new version of my test analyst is coming from. “And who’s the new woman I welcomed the other night at the centre?”
And there’s my sister’s sisterly love to join in on the party.
Still, my eyes narrow, a frown dropping, and I swivel away to look out the window again.
“No one.”
“Obviously. I’ve often known you stay over there throughout the night for someone who means as little to you as the others do.” She looks me over, clear concern about my fatigued face and dark circles. “Sleep might be useful, Gray.”
My frown deepens. “Beatrice,” I warn.
“Don’t use that tone with me. Who is she to you? I saw her bloodwork, Gray. If she’s being trialled then-“
“Leave it, Beatrice,” snaps out of me. “She’s nothing to do with you.” I stand, eyes glaring at hers. “And I will not tolerate you meddling with anything that is nothing to do with you. You know what your job is – do it.”
She stands with me. Chin aloft and enough Rothburg lines to let me know I just aggravated her beyond previous rational behaviour.
“Really? Alright then, it’s about time you heard this anyway. It’s a bloody lost cause, Gray. Even you, with all your intellect, are not making any headway on this.” I blink, then turn to glare out the window some more rather than acknowledge that. “Since the initial findings, there’s been no clear movement in analysis. No change.” She sighs in the background. “You brought me here from Oxford to help you, and I have, with everything I’ve got, but you’re not getting anywhere and now it’s nothing but a fool’s errand. Since the initial trials it’s-”
My fist clenches on the desk. “That’s not a reason to abandon-"
“No, but seeing you smile occasionally like you were doing when I came in would be better than watching you flog a dead horse for the rest of your life.”
The bluntness of the statement makes me swing to look at her, sharp eyes conveying my displeasure with the words. “Not dead.”
“Not alive either,” she retorts.
My body swings back to her. Ire and fucking antagonism building because of this whole damn situation and my exhaustion with the facts. “I will get my answers, Beatrice. I want to hear the words in the air. A goddamn apology and some fucking remorse for screwing with my life. You haven’t got a fucking chance of understanding what it-”
“You’re screwing with your own life, you obstinate brute!” she shouts. “Pointlessly at that!”
Not accepting that in the slightest, regardless of the truth of the matter, I turn away from her again and pace the room to try calming down. My hands find my pockets, fingers twining into the gold chain I’m still carrying around like a fourteen year old with a schoolboy crush.
“Will you just consider it, Gray? There is more to life,” she says, tone softening. “One more year and I’ll be retiring. What will you do then?”
“Find someone else who’s better.”
“Charming. And I suppose you’ll have them stay here permanently rather than you again, so you can live your separate lives.” She walks over to me, her hand reaching for my shoulder. “Except, it isn’t separate, is it, Gray? You’re still stuck here, even when you’re not. As your big sister, I'm begging. Please. You have a right to life.” A breath pulls into me, body unstiffening given her look of compassion. “Perhaps it’s time.”
I squeeze her hand on my shoulder, accepting her worry. It’s not needed, but it’s valued nonetheless. “I appreciate your concern, Beatrice, but I’d rather you get on with helping me achieve results.”
She nods, with a sigh, and slips her glasses back on her face. “I’ll go over to the centre then.”
“No.”
“Analysis?”
“No. Not while she’s there. Leave it for a few days.”
I look at the floor, wall, anything other than her, and then walk straight out the damn office in the hope that I can avoid the rest of the interrogative conversation that might ensue at any given moment. Dealing with Malachi’s inquisitions is bad enough, dealing with a sister on full analytical attack mode is something I’m not even remotely interested in.
The house echoes with every footfall I make, barely any life in it to dampen down the sound of my quick strides through it, until I’m outside and heading for the barns. She won’t follow me there. Dislikes horses and is allergic to straw. It’s something I could cure if I felt inclined to. I won’t. It’s my only escape from her.
Always was.
The shame of it is, I can still hear her shoes clattering the tarmac tracks behind me, as if this is worth arguing about passed her allergies and fears.
