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She merely shrugs, her gaze holding mine.
"You don't care?" I ask, surprised.
Cisco had told me how she'd protested the fact that she had to go to therapy, so it's surprising to see her so willing.
She shrugs again.
"As long as it's Gianna. I don't think anyone else could handle the truth of my past without calling the police on me," she gives me a hesitant smile.
"Do I even want to know how many people you've killed?" I ask, amused, though the topic is anythingbutamusing.
Just a week ago I would have never thought her capable of holding a gun in her hands, let alone pull the trigger on one.
If anyone had told me we would be in this situation, I would have laughed in their faces. After all, my sweet and innocent Noelle was too sheltered and far too kind hearted to ever consider killing someone.
Yet here we are.
"I haven't kept count," she replies. "If it makes you feel better, I've never once killed someone who didn't deserve it."
"Sure. Definitely makes me feel better," I add drily. "Get your bag and let's go," I say before we go deeper down the rabbit hole.
My God but can she be more fucking obedient? I give her an order, she dutifully obeys, no hint of a protest—not even one of displeasure.
She looks at me with those fucking big puppy eyes of hers and I feel like a bounder for making her sad even for a moment.
Just fucking great.
She's the guilty one but it's makingmefeel guilty.
She follows one step behind me, her hands grabbing the hem of her shirt every now and then, her fingers itching to reach for me.
I know it and I ignore it.
Too bad mine are itching just as much.
Gritting my teeth, I go against myself and Idon'topen the door for her to get in the car, simply sliding in the driver's seat and waiting for her to get in.
She does. Slower than I would have liked, but she does.
Yet now that I've seen the lethargy of her movements, I can't help but be worried, and before I know it, I open my mouth.
"Does your wrist still pain you?"
She shakes her head.
"No. They gave me something for the pain. It's just a little sore."
"That's what you get for slitting your wrist in front of me," I mumble under my breath.
"How else was I to get your attention?" she asks as she gives me half a glance.
"Definitely not by dying," I grit my teeth, stepping on the gas pedal and deciding to ignore her for the rest of the journey.
Traffic is awful. It takes us almost an hour to get to the airport, and another two hours to check in and get through security.
Once we get to the plane, we're led to our little suite. Carlos had gone above and beyond to get us a first class suite, knowing we'd like our privacy. How he'd managed on such short notice consideringnotall airlines even have a suite is beyond me.
Yet here we are.
