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He inclined his head when she didn’t move to reveal more skin.
“That was a statement, not a question. My question is what happened to Norman?”
Will hesitated a beat; he suppressed a shudder. His expression darkened. “He drowned.”
“In the creek?”
He nodded.
She opened the shirt up so her breasts were bared.
His eyes flared back to life. “Ask me where I was, Darcy.”
“Where were you? Where was Peter?”
“Pete was in the tent. Norman hurt him badly that night. I wasn’t strong enough to stop him.”
Oh God. “Where were you, Will?”
“On the bank.” Will pushed off the bench and came towards her. “I watched the bastard drown.” He stopped an arm’s length away. “Ask me if I could’ve saved him.”
She gulped. This is what Will was running from, why taken a new name, but she didn’t need to know this. “No.”
“Ask me.”
She was virtually naked and this wasn’t a game anymore. She understood now, it never had been. Will was locked on her eyes, and she couldn’t take hers off him, off the tight clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. His body vibrated with muscle memory of that awful night. She didn’t want to ask this question, but he needed it.
“Could you have saved him?” Her voice was a whisper and goose bumps rippled over her body, making her shiver.
“Yes.” He spat the word with toxin in his voice. He held up his plastered hand, rotated it in front of her face. “With one hand.” Will was standing so close if he straightened his elbow he’d be touching her. “Now ask me if he was worth saving.”
She gripped the edges of the shirt, she wanted to pull it back on, snap the studs, clothe herself from his bitterness, and the waves of dread, and regret coming off him. “He might’ve killed you, killed Peter. You were abused. You were what, fifteen, sixteen? You’re not to blame. It was self-defence.”
Unwinding fast like a pinned wire spring, he had his hand in her hair, holding her tight so she couldn’t escape his ugly truth. “Ask me.”
Darcy gasped a breath. She wasn’t frightened, despite the core of black anger in him or how hard he pulled her hair, but Will was. He was terrified.
“Was he worth saving?”
“He was a drunk, a con artist, a liar, a thief, and a cheat. He was violent and cruel, and he made me a killer. But he was a human being, and I had no right to let him die.”
As suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go, turning away, his chest heaving.
Darcy could barely breathe from the horror of what he was saying. He’d been a boy, abused, battered, alone, protecting Peter. And he was consumed by guilt.
This was why Will could believe he’d killed Feng Kee, because he believed he’d killed Norman.
“He wasn’t worth saving, Will.”
“That’s not a question.”
The game was all out of sequence, the information coming so fast, but she didn’t want him to shut down. She shrugged out of the shirt.
“Look at me, Will.” He turned back to her, but his eyes slid away. “Do you regret not saving him?”
“No.” The word punched out of him, and he refocused on her.
She had no clothing left to give him. She brushed her thumbs across her nipples, already raised, tight, drawing his gaze. “How did he drown?”
