Page 90 of Twisted Enemy
I’m shocked when he complies.
My mobile rings, yanking me out of a confusing dream where my tuxedo-clad father is walking Breagha down a very long pier, using a bloody crowbar to prop up the drooping right side of his body. The chirping ringtone is the one I’ve set for my sister, the only one I never allow to be silenced.
“Breagha! Are you okay?”
“I’m…fine…Kate....” She sounds like she’s floating in a sea as dense as porridge.
I twist to look at the clock on my nightstand. “Breagha, it’s 3:37 in the morning.”
“Mam let me out of…the room downstairs… She said I can stay…in my bedroom now… I forgot to call before… I just remembered…”
“You sound strange, Breagha. Did you take something?”
“Take something?” She echoes my words, turning them into an eerie little song.
“To help you sleep?”
“I’m not tired… My head just feels funny… Like I’m up in the sky…looking down on Canton…”
“What did you eat today?”
“I wasn’t hungry… Mam said I had to…drink a glass of…orange juice…before I could come upstairs… After I drank…I got so clumsy… I…” As she trails off, I wonder what Mam gave her.
“Breagha?” I finally ask after too long a silence.
“Kate!” she says, a new urgency cutting through her dreamy tone. But shouting my name seems to drain all her energy, because she drops back into her haunting sing-song. “I won’t do it… I won’t marry…Tarasov.” She whispers the Russian name. “I won’t be at my wedding.”
“Breagha! What do you mean?” Her silence feels like an ice-dagger pressed against my jugular. “Breagha. What do you mean you won’t be there?”
“I love Nate.” There—another simple declarative sentence. Maybe Mam’s potion is wearing off.
“I know you do,” I say.
“And I’ll kill myself…” She’s drifting again. “Before I marry any other man...”
The dagger shifts from my throat, slipping between my ribs to pierce my heart. “Don’t say that, Breagha.”
“Sister Mary Clare always said…Never tell a lie… I don’t lie… I’ll kill myself before I marry…Tarasov…”
“Breagha. Listen to me. I’ll take care of this. You won’t marry Tarasov. But you can’t hurt yourself. You can’t do anything mad. Promise you trust me. Promise me you’ll wait.”
“But Tarasov…”
“Promise me!” I shout.
There’s a long pause, where I wonder if she’s slipped away. But finally, she whispers, “I promise.”
“What do you promise, Breagha? Say it all out loud.”
“I promise I won’t…hurt myself… Not before the wedding…”
“That’s right. You keep saying that. I have to go now. But I promise I’ll see you tomorrow. On Thursday.”
“At the wedding…”
“There won’t be a wedding. I promise.”
“Pinky swear?”
