I should've known better. He'd always been able to see right through me.
So he'd given me the fucking house.
When I first got here, I'd been so out of it, I barely registered the fact that the place was emptier than it had been the last time I was in the city. Back then, it'd been a shelter for abused women and their families, but I knew it changed, depending on what was needed.
It hadn't been until Sunday night that I'd gotten the whole story.
When Father O'Toole had flown out to Texas after hearing what happened, the house was in the process of having some interior renovations done, so no one was using it. The work was finished some time at the beginning of May, but he'd put off deciding what to do with it until he'd known more about my condition. Apparently, he'd had this idea in mind for at least a month now.
He signed it all over to me. The entire fucking mansion and the trust that went along with it. The other property and its trust were separate, still being used by the Church, but all of this was mine now.
But I didn't want it, and he damn well knew it.
He knew I wouldn't want him to give me anything, especially not something like this. I'd already considered myself to be in his debt, completely undeserving of anything even remotely good. This just made me owe him more.
And he knew with that on my conscience, I wouldn't do anything stupid.
I thought I'd had a plan before I realized he wanted me to come back here. I wouldn't have actually committed suicide. I didn't believe in heaven or hell or even purgatory, but he did, and I would never be responsible for him grieving for my soul as well as my life.
But if I faded away...
If I'd been in San Antonio, without him around to make sure I was taking care of myself, it would've been easy. Too many pain meds mixed with too much alcohol. Easy to write off as an accident if it wasn't happening fast enough.
Now, not so much.
Which is, I knew, exactly what the bastard had wanted.
And as soon as I thought it, I felt guilty about it.
And that just pissed me off even more.
Not that this was a new state of being for me. As soon as I woke up in that hospital and heard my prognosis, I'd been angry, and I’d stayed that way. The closest I ever felt to anything other than anger was numbness. I welcomed that because, at least then, I wasn't biting people's heads off for just doing their job.
Her face popped into my mind then. Nutmeg brown hair, teal eyes. Curves that would've caught any man's attention.
Nori Prinz.
She was the only bright spot in the past three months. The only person who was able to make me feel even the slightest bit less angry, to give me anything resembling hope.
And the last time I'd spoken to her, I'd been an ass.
There were plenty of other times in the past three months that I hadn't exactly been nice to her, but when she'd come in on Saturday to say goodbye, I'd upped the asshole factor.
I tried telling myself that it was because I'd been in extra pain that day, or more tired. Even that I'd been anxious about leaving Texas. I hadn't been able to convince myself though. I knew all of it was a lie. I'd been irritated that she'd come by, but not because I didn't want her there, but because it was a reminder of the one person I'd miss.
The entire time I was at the hospital, she was nothing but nice to me. Not just nice because it was her job to take care of me, but she was just genuinely that way. She never treated me like an invalid, even when things had been really bad at the beginning and I hadn't been able to do anything for myself.
Anything.
My face burned at the memories. I'd never considered myself someone who got embarrassed easily, but not being able to take a piss without help was humiliating. I couldn't even think about the other things she'd had to do. She'd never complained about any of it, or let it make things awkward between us.
She talked to me. I, of course, hadn't done much talking back, but I'd listened, probably more than she realized. From the first moment I'd seen her, she'd had my attention, and I'd wanted to know more about her. She didn't know it, but there were times in the hospital where she'd been my only lifeline, the only thing keeping me from going completely under.
I may have been depressed and angry, but I wasn't an idiot. I knew that any good shrink would tell me I was dealing with some sort of Florence Nightingale syndrome, that I was only interested in her because she'd taken care of me when I was hurt.
Fuck that.
I was the kind of person who hated needing other people to help me. Why would I want to spend more time with someone who'd wiped my ass and seen me at some of my lowest points? Especially an attractive woman? Hell, it was hard enough with Father O'Toole.
“Good morning, Mr. Hammond. How are we feeling today?”
I scowled at the nurse who came into my room.
Without knocking.
And said ‘we.’