Slowly, I drew my feet up, scooted over tothe bath, caught the edge, and stood. Then I faced him. For somereason, I was out of breath. And my cheeks? They’d gone fromghostly, pale white to apple red.
“I think I need to dry again,”I said.
He nodded, turned, walked out, and closed the door.
Apparently, hewasn’t willing to hang around in case I fell again. No more gallantacts for him. If I slipped and cracked my head, he wouldn’t bethere to pick me up.
Somehow, I kept my balance. I kept mybalance because I was completely distracted. No, not byhim – okay, mostly by him –but my mind also ticked back to the murder.
It was almost gone from my body now. Ithad transformed from this raw, gut-wrenching memory into nothingmore than a fact,like I'd read about it or seenit in a movie. Not like I'd experienced it.
This time, I put a towelon my hair, and luckily found a stash of clothes inthe cupboard that were dry.
I even found a mop andgave the tiles a quick once over so there could be no morehilarious mistakes.
When I was done, I opened the door. Iexpected to see him. He wasn'tthere.
I trudged down the stairs.
That's when I heard him on the phone. Ididn't know who he was speaking to, but when I heard thewords brokennose andbloodiedeye, I froze.
It had to be Detective Coulson.
Or so I thought. Because he suddenlyswitched from English to a language Ididn’t recognize. It almost sounded like Celtic.
I paused on one of the stairs, andsuddenly it creaked as I shifted myweight.
Max stopped abruptly.
He’d been in the lounge room, but now Iheard him walk out. Though he’d been on the phone before, he turnedit off and pocketed it before he faced me. “How are you?” he askedafter a significant pause; a pause where I swore he was trying to figure out if I’d heardanything.
I forced myself to shrug. “I have no ideahow I am,” I answered honestly.
Surprise, surprise, he drew his arms up,crossed them, and stared at me. “Are you sure you can’t rememberany other details?”
I brought a hand up, latched it onto myshoulder, and pulled the muscle. Then I shook my head.
He sighed, his shoulders deflating, but henever dropped his arms.
“… What happens now?”
“Now, the police do their job.”
I frowned. “So that’s it? I don’t have todo anything else?”
He made eye contact. “That’s up toyou.”
A tight shiver raced down my spine. “Whatdo you mean it’s up to me?”
“I mean it’s up to you. Only you know if you’ve told me allyou can.”
I blinked, my cheeks cold. “S-sorry?”Suddenly the penny dropped, and my cheeks went from cold tototally friggin’frozen. “You think I’m lying?”There was a seriously careful edge to my voice.
He let his gaze slip down to the floorthen tickedit back up as his lipsstiffened. “Only you can answer that.”
The indignation slammed into me like I’dbeen slapped by a giant hand. “Are you serious? Are you accusing meof lying about what just happened?”
“Do you blame me? You have a history oflying, Chi McLane. You also have a history of dodgingresponsibility.”
I’d felt indignant around this assholebefore. I’d hit the roof around him before, too.This was different. This was colder. This was me suddenly realizingthat all the compassion he’d shown upstairs in the bathroom wasjust for show.
This – the prick staring me down anddoubting my story – this was the real Max.
“You absolute bastard,” I said as I turned hard on my foot andstalked up the stairs.
He snorted. “You can insult me all youwant. But understand this – there is a murderer out there, and ifyou’ve left anything out—”
“Go to hell,” I spat as I made it to the top of the splitstaircases, stalked down the hallway, reached the right door, andyanked it open.
I threw myself into my room, slammed thedoor, and, just for good measure, pushed a chest of drawers infront of it. Though it took me a hell of a lot ofgrunt to shift it, once I was done, and had successfullybarricaded myself in, I turned. I walked over to my bed, grabbed upmy pillow, crammed it over my face, and screamed.
A second later, I started to tear up. Then Ijust screamed again.
This was so unbelievably unfair.
I’d gone from experiencing a murderfirst-hand to being snapped at that I was a lying witch.
What a day.
I expected to hear Max’s less than softfootfall out on the landing. Heck, I expected him to try to raminto the door with his shoulder. Nope, nothing.
Nothing, that was, until I heard a tap at mywindow.
At first, I thought it was a bird. Maybesomething had been blown against the glass.
Nope. I didn’t have a chance to doanything by the time I realized the window was opening.
A second later, I watched Max the Scottish fairy climbin.
Don’t ask me how he did it – my bedroom wason the third floor.
I snapped up from my bed and stared at himagape. “How the hell? What? How the hell did you get inhere?”
“I opened the window.”
“We’re on the third floor!”
“Aye, I climbed the tree.”He reached out of the window,grabbed the end of a branch, and pulled it in.
The branch, despite the fact it was ahefty one, couldn’t protest – not against Max’s cast-iron grip.Which was kind of funny, when I thought about it. Because here Maxwas showing his inhuman strength and agility by climbing up afrigging tree and jumping in the window. So why exactly had hefallen on top of me in the bathroom?
I didn’t have the opportunity to assessthat thought – Max cleared his throat, took up position in themiddle of the room, and immediately crossed his arms. Were theyattached bya spring or something? Did hisarms recharge when they were attached to his chest like it was somekind of docking station?
Suddenly, I reminded myself
