“No problem. I’ll be right back.”
I made him some toast, too. He’d thrown up another three times while he was feverish, and he could have probably used some food in his stomach right about now. When I took him the plate I wasn’t surprised that he refused it, however.
“Thanks, though. I mean it. I just can’t right now.”
“Do you want to take something for the pain yet?”
A shadow of anger flickered in his eyes. “I said no, Lang. I could be in pieces, bleeding out on the sidewalk, and I would still rather die than take any of that shit. Don’t ask me again.” Looked like he was feeling well enough to tell me off. That was an improvement. “What time is it, anyway?” he asked, trying to turn to look out of the window behind him. I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“It’s five forty,” I said. “Dawn’s right around the corner. Been a long time since I pulled an all-nighter twice in one week.”
“Such a rebel.” He cracked a smile, and two deep, heartbreakingly perfect dimples formed in his cheeks.
“Yeah. If you say so.” I smiled, ducking my head. “I have to go, Sully. I can’t leave the children for much longer. I was wondering if you’d let me ask you something before I go, though?”
Wariness appeared in the lines of his face. “Sure. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer if I don’t like the question, though.”
“Naturally.” No lying with Sully. Just the point-blank refusal to hand over the information you’d requested. Sounded about right. “While you were burning up, you kept shouting at someone. Someone called Crowe. I just wanted to know who he was.”
Sully went very, very still. For a long moment he held his breath, eyes on me, eyes on the ceiling, and then he sighed, long and heavy. “Crowe was a guy I served with in the army. He was a jerk and a coward. He and I were not friends. That good enough for you, Lang?”
It wasn’t. I wanted to know why Sully had been so angry with him earlier, when he’d been screaming and shouting about the men in the truck being in danger, but I knew I was walking on thin ice. He wasn’t going to give me any more information. Not today, anyway.
“All right. Well. I’ll come back later on to check on you, okay? After Rose is done with work and she can take care of the children again.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine now. I think the worst of it has passed.”
“Even so. I’ll be back around six.”
Sully’s lips drew into a flat, tight line. He wanted to argue with me, to stand his ground, I knew, but he was a smart guy. He knew he needed the help, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
“Hey, Lang?”
I turned around.
“Are they…you know. Are they okay? Ronan’s kids?”
I pondered on the question for a second, and then answered. “No. No, they’re not okay. Their dad just died.”
******
“If you could see your father again, Connor, what would you say to him?”
Connor looked down at his hands, and then out of the window, where a small crane had been erected on the beach to haul the twisted and battered remains of the Sea King up onto the back of a flatbed truck.
“Connor?” Dr. Fielding’s voice was crystal clear and perfectly loud through the speakers of the laptop, sitting on the table in front of the little boy, though Connor was diligently pretending not to have heard him.
“Connor, sweetheart. Why don’t you answer Dr. Fielding?” I was tired. Beyond tired. I’d already decided the children weren’t going to suffer because of the fact that I’d been out all night, tending to their sick, as of yet unknown uncle, however, so I was now on my fourth cup of coffee for the day.
Connor coughed, picking at his fingernails. “I wouldn’t say anything to him. He’s dead,” he said quietly.
“Connor—”
“That’s okay, Miss Lang. Perhaps Connor is right. Sometimes, in the early stages of grief, it can be helpful to imagine these dialogues, last words if you will, to bring closure and allow the children to say their goodbyes. In other cases, it can sometimes serve to confuse the situation. Connor, how do you feel about your life on the island? Do you like it there?” With Ophelia?”
Connor looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “You can say whatever you like. I’m not going to be mad, I promise.”
“I hate it,” he blurted. “I hate the island. I hate not going to school. I hate Amie sometimes. She’s always too happy.”
“And Ophelia? Do you mind that your father left her in charge of looking after you?”
He was quiet for a very long time. I could tell he wanted to look at me again, but he wouldn’t let himself. And then, after a few more moments of indecision, he said, “I don’t hate Ophelia. I did at first, but now…she’s okay. I don’t mind that she’s in charge. Being here with her is better than being in an orphanage.”