She was being unfair. She knew that. She had asked him to kill Marnie—she’d begged and cried for it.
Murderer.
Clare had killed hollows too. She’d stabbed a metal pole through his mother’s head. He hadn’t held that against her. It was unfair to treat Marnie’s death as different. That didn’t stop it from feeling wrong.
She was a hollow. A monster.
But Clare had loved her.
Your aunt was gone.
But not completely gone. There was a little of her left in her eyes. Not much, and mostly instinctual by that point. But enough to be confused. Enough to be scared and in pain.
There was no way to save her. Dorran did the right thing by ending her suffering.
The phrase felt wrong. Ending her suffering. As though they were talking about putting an animal out of its misery, not a woman who had cared deeply and been filled with love for the world.
She would never be able to forget the noises that had come from the house. The sounds of Dorran beating her skull in. Clare knew he’d had reasons to do it that way. Knives were ineffective. They had no guns. Crushing her skull—thoroughly destroying it—was the only way he could be sure she was dead.
Murderer.
It took hours for weariness to win the battle over Clare’s mind. When she finally fell asleep, she didn’t even have the respite she had been longing for. Her dreams were full of images of Marnie, her bones poking out of her broken head and her body swollen as she shuffled along the hallway towards Clare.
She woke in a cold sweat. It was still early. Light filtered through the condensation on the glass of the small window over the kitchenette. Clare was cold. The other half of the bed was empty.
Clare sat up gingerly. She pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She was alone in the caravan. Dorran had left.
She imagined him slipping out of bed in the dead of night, going to the car, and driving out of the caravan park. He could be hours away by that point, either returning to Winterbourne or seeking out a new shelter. She deserved it. She’d been a liability for a while.
The idea hovered in her mind then evaporated. She knew Dorran better than that. He had never looked for an easy way out when things became difficult. He hadn’t abandoned her in Winterbourne when they had both thought she was going insane, and he wouldn’t abandon her in a caravan in the middle of nowhere.
If she went to the window, she would see the car. Still, she didn’t move. She was afraid of knowing. She sat, shivering, eyes burning, wishing she could go back to sleep but afraid of returning to the dreams.
What are we going to do?
Things had gone bad. It was like sliding down a slope—she was incapable of stopping and knew every extra foot she fell would make the climb back so much more impossible. She didn’t know what to do to repair their relationship—or if it were even possible.
The caravan door creaked as it opened, and Clare flinched. Dorran stepped inside, wearing the same impassive expression he had the day before. Steam rose from a bowl in his hands, and he wordlessly approached the bed and held the food towards Clare.
It took her a moment to muster a response. “I’m not hungry.”
Dorran stared at the bowl. Then with slow, unsteady movements, he placed it on the kitchenette bench. The silence held for a moment, every second of it excruciating. Then Dorran turned to face Clare and took a deep breath. “You hate me. That is fine.”
Clare stared at him. Dorran’s back was straight and his shoulders set, but one hand rested on the bench, as though he needed it for stability. His face was blank, but his eyes, the only living part in his expression, were filled with desperation. He took another shuddering breath.
“I don’t need you to love me. I never asked for it, and I do not expect it now. We don’t have to talk. You can avoid me—that is fine. But I need you to be well. To eat, to drink, to stay healthy, if you can.”
The knots in Clare’s stomach tightened, impossibly painful. She wrapped her arms around herself. She felt like she would fall apart if she didn’t.
“You are the only good thing left in this world. I cannot lose you. I cannot—I cannot do this alone.” He pressed his hand to his chest, and his fingers dug into the shirt’s fabric. For a second, the shell cracked, and emotions flickered across his face: helplessness and despair. “I will not survive in this world alone. You don’t have to love me. But if I ever meant anything to you, please, I need you to fight.”
Clare shook her head. Tears burned as they slid over her lids, and she didn’t know where to look or what to do. Reflexes kicked in, and she stretched her hands towards Dorran.
He responded, stepping forward, his arms wrapping around her. That felt right.
“I don’t hate you.” She mumbled the words into shoulder, and his arms tightened. “Dorran… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m being horrible. I can’t think clearly. I-I—”
“I know.”
The word murderer resurfaced. It felt hollow. Just like he wouldn’t abandon her, he wasn’t cruel. He felt lost, like her. He had done his best to make the right choice, even when it was not clear. And he was scared. Not in a loud, obvious way. He held his fears close to his chest and masked them under steady reliability. But they were there, nonetheless. Fear that he wasn’t enough. Fear that he would make the wrong choice.
“You did the right thing.” Clare’s voice cracked, but she knew the words were the truth. She swallowed, trying to clear her throat. “Back at Marnie’s house, I mean. I’m sorry I reacted that way—”
“She was
