I squeezed my locket so hard, my fingers hurt. "When we got her back, I didn't even take advantage of the time I had with her. I think I was still a little angry. And now she's dead. My mom is dead. I should be able to just be sad like a normal person, but I can't." Jack saying it on the bus had made me realize it. If I was just sad, everything would be so much easier. "I feel guilty because it was my fault. And angry because it was partly hers. And then so guilty again, about being angry."
Stellan started to say something, but I wasn't done. "And on top of it all, I feel so disgusted with myself over everything. Over how I feel about my mom. Over how I don't even feel bad that Cole is dead. He's my half brother, and he's dead, and I'm glad, and that's disgusting. I can't believe I feel those things. I don't even recognize myself."
Before I even realized I was shaking again, Stellan's hand was gently cupping the back of my neck, his thumb running over my hair. "Like this?" he said quietly.
I tensed. I should want him to stop. I didn't. "Yeah."
"Is this weird?" he said after a second.
"Yeah."
"Good weird?"
I nodded.
"You don't have to keep making up ridiculous excuses like panic attacks to get me to touch you, you know." One side of his mouth tugged up. "All you have to do is ask."
"Shut up," I whispered, but he didn't stop petting my head, and I didn't tell him to. The shaking calmed. For some reason, I remembered that night on the train from Paris to Cannes. He'd had a head injury, I'd helped him take care of it. The next morning, we'd woken up accidentally wrapped together in my bed, with Jack sleeping next to us.
I glanced to the back seat at Jack and Elodie's slumbering forms. "So have you talked to your sister again?" I said, changing the subject abruptly.
His fingers paused. "Before we went into the tunnels. They're at the safe house. They're fine." He gave a wry smile. "The nanny told me to stop calling so much. I was making Anya nervous."
I pulled my knees up to my chest. "I'm glad she's okay."
He nodded. His hand trailed off my back and he turned to stare out the window. I realized he'd never answered the question of how he knew what a panic attack looked like, and exactly what to do. I realized I'd been doing a whole lot of talking about myself.
"Hey, are you doing okay?" I said.
He didn't turn around. "Never better."
"I was serious when I said you could leave. Not that you need my permission." I remembered the very first time I'd learned he even had a seven-year-old sister. The tattered photo he kept in his wallet of the tiny, scarred blond girl. The reason why he became part of the Circle in the first place, and the only reason he cared about the power that being the thirteenth line could bring. It wasn't fair to him that now he was so caught up in it that he hadn't run when he had the chance. It wasn't fair that he had to be here now rather than ensuring that she was where she should be. He should leave. "Once it's safe again, you can take Anya and go."
I thought he might answer. But just like when I'd mentioned it in the tunnels earlier, he didn't say a thing.
CHAPTER 16
Everyone disappeared into separate rooms off the same hallway with nothing but a wave and quick plans for the morning. Tomorrow, we were going to get out of Egypt and rescue Fitz. I stayed watching all their doors for a few seconds before I shut mine.
My room was sparsely furnished, with a heavy wooden armoire, a stiff-looking sofa, a bed, and a thin rug over the brick floor. A stick of incense had been lit and sent up thick, sweet smoke.
I took a shower-cold, because I couldn't figure out how to get the water to warm, or maybe there wasn't a way, since this was not a fancy hotel-and flopped onto the bed, pulling the thin quilt over me.
Every part of my body ached. It wasn't just the bullet wound-it was the stiffness from sitting on the bus so long, the blows from the explosion, the knot on my elbow from falling out of my chair deceiving the guard at the hospital. It all caught up at once, and I thanked Elodie a million times over for the painkillers she'd grabbed.
I stared up at the ceiling fan, which was turning lazily. We were just off the lobby, and outside my door, footsteps clomped back and forth on the brick floor. Someone made a comment in Arabic, and someone else laughed. When we'd walked through the lobby, it had smelled like mint tea, and I realized it did in here, too, over the incense.
I lifted my head. A silver pot of tea with a slim metal cup and a small dish of some kind of pastries-fried dough balls soaked in a syrup-sat on the nightstand next to the single lamp. The proprietor must have delivered it as we were checking in. My worn-out heart thumped at the kindness of the gesture, the way it made this insignificant place feel more like home than anywhere had lately.