Chapter 11 · Cold Bilge at 2 AM

The burner lit the loft up like a flare.

Garrett's eyes were already open. Not blinking-open. Wide-open, both hands still under the blanket where a man keeps a knife. You don't wake up that fast unless you've slept in places where somebody could take your boots and your throat in the same grab.

"Who's texting you at two in the morning."

Not a question, the way he said it.

"Wrong number." I turned the screen flat against my ribs.

"Mm."

The iron frame groaned when he shifted. God, that sound. It was going to ruin me before June ever got the chance.

Then he was up. The loft got smaller by half. Bare shoulders, the spiral scar down his left forearm he claims came off a mooring line. Mooring lines don't bite into flesh like teeth.

I read it out loud, because he wasn't going to quit staring.

"Bay State Savings. Cashier's check. Eighteen thousand four hundred dollars. Paid to Beacon Hospice, patient account, Ruth Shore." I turned the phone at him. "No name. No note."

He didn't look at the glass. He looked at me.

"Eighteen four is four months," I said. "Ventilator, feeding tube, the private night nurse.