Through the back window, I glared at Detective Shepard’s bent head. My father was opposite him, trying not to watch me, and failing. I glared at him too.
I’d get in the car, then. I’d scour all the countryside between here and Sherringford, and I’d find her, somehow. After I was sure she hadn’t OD’d, I’d let her hate me all she wanted. But my hands, beneath their bandages, were beginning to freeze. I had no intention of getting frostbite twice in two days. Gloves, I thought, climbing the porch steps, and then the car, and then Holmes—
Below my feet, I heard snickering.
It was an ugly laugh. A laugh you’d hear from a small boy who’d just plucked the wings from a fly. Still, it was hers, and I jumped off the side of the porch, getting to my hands and knees to peer into the foot of darkness underneath.
In the frozen mud beneath the stairs, Holmes had tucked herself into a small dark ball. Her head was tipped to one languid side, considering me. I knelt there, unmoving. She saw me, it was clear; it was also clear she wasn’t processing what she saw. Her bare feet were black with dirt, her hair wild.
She’d hidden herself under the porch the way a beaten dog would.
74. Whatever happens, remember it is not your fault and likely could not have been prevented, no matter your efforts.
My father, once again, was proving himself an idiot. “Holmes?” I whispered.
“Hello, Watson,” she said drowsily. I crawled up next to her, past her socks and shoes all in a pile, past her tucked-up legs. Her eyes flicked over to me, unconcerned. I noticed, with a shock, that her pupils had constricted to tiny black dots. “Hello,” she said again, and laughed.
“How much have you taken?” I asked, shaking out her socks and pulling them back over her freezing feet. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t respond either, even when I put a hand inside one of her boots and came up with an empty plastic bag. “God, have you always kept this stuff with you?”
“Rainy days,” she said, shutting her eyes. Her voice wasn’t ragged, or hoarse—it wasn’t hers at all. “Oh, Watson. Always so disappointed.”
“No, stay awake,” I said, tapping at her cold face. She batted my hand away halfheartedly. “What have you taken?” I asked.
“Oxy. Slows it all down.” She smiled. “Done with coke. Hate coke. Am I disappointing you?”
“No.”
“Liar,” she said, with sudden venom. “You expect impossible things, and I refuse to deliver. Can’t do it. Won’t.”
“I am not expecting anything from you,” I said, “except for you not to freeze to death.” Shucking off my coat, I wrapped it around her. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
“No.”
“Holmes, it’s freezing, we need to get you into a hot bath.” I tugged on her arm. Immediately, she clawed at my injured palm with her nails. I flinched away.
“I said no,” she said, staring at me with eyes that were all iris and no pupil.
I cradled my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. “How much have you taken?”
“Enough,” she said, looking away. She was bored again. “I won’t die. Go away.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
“Go away. Take your coat, it smells like guilt.”
“Actually,” I said, “I think I’m fine right here.” I couldn’t make her go inside. I probably couldn’t make her go anywhere with me ever again. What else could I do? After a moment, I tucked myself in beside her, hoping my body heat, at least, would do something to warm her up.
The world slowed to a standstill, as it does when things go so wrong, the bad news closing in like a lowering ceiling. I should have been thinking up a solution. A way out. Deciding if I should grovel for her forgiveness, or if I should tell Detective Shepard that she and I should be pulled from the case. But I didn’t. I curled up against her in the cold and listened for her breathing. What were you supposed to do when you were dealing with drugs like this? How long would the effects last? I wished, for the first time, that I’d done something with my years at Highcombe other than read novels and swoon over icy blond princesses who’d never touch anything harder than pot. I could have gained some practical knowledge. She might be dying, I thought, and I had no way to know; the responsible thing would be to call the police, or an ambulance, or at the very least tell my father and let him sort it out.
I didn’t. They’d write that on my tombstone, I thought: Jamie Watson. He didn’t. The snow sifted down through the porch slats, filling in the tracks her knees had made crawling through the mud. I wasn’t Catholic, but this had the distinct feel of purgatory: the bitter cold, the unending wait. No idea of what would come after.
After what felt like forever, the back door slid open. I listened to the heavy footfalls over our heads.