Page 87 of Tattletale

I make my way to the bed and run my fingers over the grooves of my luggage. At least it’s still unpacked. I’m sure the housekeepers took care of this. At least Gabriel didn’t open—

Wait.

Glancing over my luggage to the nightstand on the left, something catches my eye. My heart quickens as I rush to the left side of the bed to confirm my suspicions. Lance’s wallet. I gaze at the inscription at the corner of the dark leather, feeling the heat rising to my cheeks. It’s not embarrassment…it’s fury. I know for a fact this was buried in a hidden pocket in my luggage. You would’ve had to go digging to find this.

In fact, you’d have to be a jealous, snooping man to think this wallet was significant enough to put it on display on what Gabrielthinksis my side of the bed. Preparing myself, I concoct an easy lie in my head.It’s my father’s.Dad’s name was Cillian O’Leary, but Gabriel doesn’t need to know that. If he questions theLMinscription, I can easily say I took my mother’s surname instead, seeing as my father and I are estranged.

If he was alive, we would be.

Actually, if my father was alive, I’d put him in the ground for what he did to my mother. Vesper, Lance, and the entire PALADIN team be damned. Even if it’d cost my life, that’s a vendetta I could never let go of. I ball my fists up at the mere idea of facing my father again. I have to remind myself it’s only lost memories and ghosts. There’s nothing I can do.

Right as I relax, a low moan coming from the en suite bathroom surprises me. I’d be more on high alert and the potential danger, except that was most definitely a cry of distress. I bust my way into the bathroom with such confidence you’d think I was armed.

The bathroom is a bloody mess.

“Gabriel?” I gawk at the trail of bloody handprints all over the clean white bathroom tile, the matching white vanity, and the mirror. All right handprints. There’s a crawl pattern leading right to the shower.

I yank open the frosted shower door to see a crumbled Gabriel in the corner. The shower isn’t on, but he’s drenched.

“Fuck!” I call out, dropping to his side. I smack his cheeks to get his attention. “Gabriel, what happened?”

He mutters something incomprehensible, and I wince at his breath. I could hold a lit match to his lips, and this man could breathe fire. He’s completely plastered, liquor seeping from his pores.

“Look at me.” I grab his cheeks and force him to look into my eyes. He’s trying, but his eyelids are barely at half-mast. It’s still more than enough to see his thoroughly bloodshot eyes. “Where is the blood coming from, Gabriel?”

I pat his body down. His tux undershirt is lightly stained, but not soaked with blood. Definitely not a stab or bullet wound.

“My hand,” Gabriel manages to whisper.

I grab his right hand, remembering the blood pattern. He winces when I touch him, and I see why. He sliced his palm open, bad. Judging by the amount of blood, he severed a ligament. “You need stitches. Maybe a surgeon. Let’s go to the hospital.”

That seems to sober him just slightly. “No.” His tone is clear and his eyes pop into wide circles. “No hospital.”

“You could lose the function of your hand,” I argue.

Gabriel shakes his head. “My phone,” he mumbles.

“What’s in your phone?”

“Doctor.”

I try not to be annoyed at the one-worded caveman riddles. Summoning all my patience, I try to ask Gabriel simple questions. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Was this an accident?”

“Yes,” he says again. “Wine bottle.”

“I really want to take you to the hospital. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“No, Fee-oh-nuh.” He exaggerates the syllables in my name. “Call my doctor.”

I exhale. “Is the doctor in your phone a surgeon who can close this up?”

“The best,” Gabriel croaks out before tilting his head back to rest against the shower wall.

I sigh. “Are you right-handed or left?”

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