Shelby had insisted on staying, and her reasons were sound. Jackie likely wasn’t safe by herself. He had seen nervous breakdowns before, and been on the edge himself more than once in his lifetime, so he could not say no. Despite the uncomfortable nature of hanging out in a near stranger’s house while that stranger slept, Nick wanted to stay. He felt part of the responsibility lay on his shoulders. More lives ruined on his account-on his failure to get the job done.
As if she were listening to his thoughts, Shelby asked while she continued to play, “Still beating yourself up over this, aren’t you?”
He declined to answer. “I want to know how we’re going to deal with a guy who can cross over and back at will.”
“Blood, babe. Lots of blood.”
The answer he did not want to face, and yet there seemed no other way except blind, dumb luck. He picked at the cold chicken curry for a minute before putting it back down. He was too tired to think clearly, and several hours of staring down the hall at Jackie’s bedroom door had helped little. The image of her naked body, rivulets of blood trailing down her arms, had burned into his brain. Shelby had bandaged her wrists and given her a little extra incentive to sleep. They would be lucky if she was awake before morning. For some reason, John Belgerman had been all right with them keeping an eye on her. Nick was not sure he would have trusted himself if the roles were reversed.
The piano went quiet. “Got it all figured out yet?”
He rubbed his hands over his face. “No. I haven’t.”
“Let me know when you do, okay? I’d like to get Drake soon.”
Nick sighed, annoyed with her flip attitude. “And I’d like it if you stopped being a bitch and cut me a little slack.” Wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, but he had grown tired of her constant prodding over the course of the evening.
Shelby spun around on the bench and glared at him. “I’ve not even begun being a bitch to you, Nick, so get over yourself. And as far as slack goes,” she said, pausing long enough to grab the half-empty glass of wine on top of the piano and drain it, “I’ve been cutting you slack for far too long. You don’t deserve any. The dead don’t give a shit whether you have any slack or not. They want justice, and they deserve it.”
He stood up, pointing a finger at her to mark his words. “That’s hardly fair, and you know it. You don’t think I want justice?”
She got up and marched over to the couch, standing right up in his face, stabbing her own finger at his chest. “I think you want whatever will free you from the guilt on your overburdened conscience. You aren’t a sheriff anymore, cowboy. Quit trying to act like all those rules still apply.”
“I don’t think-”
“Yes, you do!” she yelled back. She tried to take a drink from her empty glass and slammed it down on the end table in frustration. “Shit. I want a cigarette now. Being around you drives me-”
“There’s some in the kitchen.” It was Jackie, her voice rough and quiet. “I’d like one, too.”
“Hey,” Shelby said, turning soft and friendly in a heartbeat. “How you feeling, Jackie?”
“Terrible in every way imaginable.” She looked it, too, huddled in the bedroom doorway, clutching at the robe wrapped around her. She eyed them suspiciously. “Why are you here?”
“Aspirin?” Shelby wondered, heading for the kitchen.
“By the sink. Cigs are on the fridge. I could really use a drink.”
Shelby gave Jackie a disarming smile. “Coffee, juice, or water?”
“Coffee, I guess.” She walked out, surveying the remnants of dinner, and stepped around the coffee table to sit on the end of the couch opposite where Nick stood, watching in silence. She curled her feet under herself, crossing her arms over her chest, watching Nick and Shelby with puffy, bloodshot eyes. A moment later, Bickerstaff appeared, hopping into her lap, and the tension abruptly melted away as she let her arms enfold the great mass of orange fur.
This was not a situation 176 years of living gave much familiarity with. Nick could only shift back and forth on his feet uncomfortably.
“Why are you here?” Jackie asked again, her fingers absently stroking the cat.
“We wanted to make sure you got through the night okay,” Shelby said. “After yesterday, we thought it best you didn’t wake up alone.”
Her face flushed a bit at that, and she looked at Nick for a brief second before glancing away. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. I… It was a rough day, that’s all. Did anyone call?”
“The FBI knows we’re here,” Nick answered. “I talked to Belgerman. He seemed okay with us being here to offer any help that might be needed.”
Jackie only nodded, saying nothing, and they avoided looking at each other in silence for a few moments. Shelby appeared to be taking her sweet time making coffee and finding cigarettes. Nick guessed she was doing it on purpose. He had to wonder if Jackie even remembered much of the day before. Peering into her bedroom had provided a strong enough indication of alcohol that he knew she had been drunk off her rocker. Any luck, and the memories would be vague at best.
The sad thing was, he found himself wondering about just what the hell had happened. This went beyond being distraught over the loss of a friend. There was a wound here that went far deeper, and Nick struggled with the feeling of connection he found himself having. The words that came out of his mouth next defied the laws of tact or intelligence.
“Do you remember much about what happened last night?” The heat rising in her face as it turned away from him was all the answer he needed.
After a moment, she looked back at him, her eyes suddenly calculating. “How did you know to come over here when you did? That wasn’t coincidence, was it?”
Nick had not prepared himself for answering that question yet. She was in no state of mind to hear that sort of discussion. “Well, not exactly, no.”
“Nick,” Shelby said with venomous warning in her voice. “Quit being an ass.” She came in and set a tray down on the coffee table with a plate full of crackers, a glass of cranberry juice, and three cups of coffee. She had a cigarette in her mouth, lit it, and handed it over to Jackie before lighting one for herself. “Why don’t you tell Jackie your story.”
“Which story is that?”
She handed him the cup of coffee. “Your story. The whole thing. Besides, if you don’t, I will.”
“That’s cheating,” he said, mustering what little defense he could. “I don’t think she…” The look Shelby gave him said enough. “Fine. I’ll tell her.”
“The whole thing,” she insisted. “Jackie deserves no less.”
Nick shrugged. “Still don’t think this is the most appropriate moment for this.”
“Nick.”
“Fine! The whole damn thing it is.”
“Oh, goody,” Shelby said, a childish grin on her face. She plopped down on the couch next to Jackie, who watched them both with a curious gaze. “This is good. Trust me. Nick tells one hell of a story.”
“Funny,” he said. “You’re real funny.” He took a long sip from the coffee cup. “This may take a while.”
Jackie shrugged. “It’s two AM, and you should have told me this from the start.”
Nick winced at the barb. In retrospect she was right. Maybe it would have changed things.
Four AM chimed on the clock before he finished. Nick left out little. He didn’t want to. Part of him wanted to tell the story to someone who might not believe, might think he was utterly crazy, or worse, condemn him for his sins. The guilty conscience wanted that, wanted confirmation that what he had done was wrong, that everything he had done or tried to do had been a horrible, bloody mistake. He stopped the story when he got to Laurel. There was no need to bring that up now, and Jackie’s glassy-eyed look told him the wounds were far too fresh to endure any discussion of it.