I enjoyed the thought of my body becoming its own weapon instead of its own enemy.
I nodded along as the doctor advised there were still side effects, but not nearly as many as chemo, and accepted the fine print. And besides, the side effects were almost identical to the symptoms I already had—coughing, breathlessness, and lack of appetite—that I didn’t care anyway.
Every three weeks was doable, and I could lie to Della about an hour trip away from home—either to the lumber mill for barn supplies or some other made-up excuse.
The oncologist suggested I think about it, but I knew I wanted to fight and fight hard, so I signed hundreds of waivers, put my life in his hands, and started the first round of treatment three days later.
I’d never been good with sharp things.
And needles?
Fuck, it was a nightmare.
Sitting in a low-ceilinged ward with dying people while chemicals flowed through my veins made claustrophobia press on me until my breathing turned shallow and my coughing became worse.
By the time it was over, I already dreaded the next appointment—glad I had twenty-one days to grow some balls to face it.
But at least I’d done something to give myself a chance. I hadn’t just curled up and accepted the inevitable like John believed I had. I wasn’t being a martyr by refusing to worry Della with this shit. This was my problem, and I would fix it.
Hopefully.
When I went home that night, I felt a little nauseous but overall fine, and I took Della to a diner, making sure I joked and acted perfectly normal.
Her eyes were sharper and attention closer, suspecting things but not sure what. But by the end of the meal, after seducing her with rich food and making her drunk with kisses, she slipped back into our trust and her wariness floated away.
That night, I made love to her with a passion bordering painful.
I refused to turn on the light, hoping she could feel me bruise her, love her, consume her, and always remember me as strong and alive.
Turned out, life was a slippery thing, but I grasped onto it with all my strength.
There was no way I was dying.
Not yet, at least.
I couldn’t—not until I had my ring on Della’s finger and her last name forever stitched to mine. And that was how a wet day in spring brought at least some answers to my prayers, along with a threat to my time-restrained freedom.
Martin Murray knocked off slushy snow from his boots and strode into the kitchen with a red nose from icy breezes. John had invited him onto his property with the taut wariness of a soldier being drafted for battle.
Ever since I’d been told what lived inside me, John had been overly protective of me.
Della sometimes raised an eyebrow at the way he layered my plate with vegetables and filled my palm with vitamins. He’d overstepped a few times, but I didn’t have the heart to tell the old man to back off.
He’d done so much for me.
The lawyer he’d arranged—in case I was still prosecuted for Della’s kidnapping—had now been given other duties, including drawing up my Will and Testament—leaving everything I had to Della, even though I had nothing of value—and arranging my funeral so it wasn’t yet another burden when I was gone.
Rain turned to snowflakes as we all sat at the well-used dining table in a fire-warmed house and prepared to find out what happened with the Mclary case.
Nerves danced down my spine. Worry that I might be thrown in jail filled my broken lungs, granting a rattling cough. What if the investigation had finished, and I’d still been found at fault?
Della sensed my tension, running a gentle hand over my lower back.
Never again would I take her touch for granted.
Never again would I be annoyed at her or be short-tempered or argue.
It was a struggle not to count each time she touched me, keeping tally of how many I could earn before I wasn’t there to earn more.
Shaking my head, I banished those thoughts as Martin cupped his hands around a cup of steaming coffee and looked at John as he lowered his big bulk into the chair at the head of the table.
“Thank you for seeing me.” Martin cleared his throat, his eyes catching mine, then Della’s.
Long ago, Della and I had sat here and been interrogated in a different way. I’d been coughing with pneumonia, and a five-year-old Della had tried to fight my battles. That had ended in a happy conclusion.
Would this?
“Why are you here?” I asked, not impolitely but with a reminder that the sooner this was over with, the better.
“I have news.” Martin reached to the briefcase by his chair leg and pulled out a file. “Here.” Skidding it across to us, he waited until I’d opened it and pulled out a page. It looked like gibberish full of police terminology, dates, reference numbers, and findings.