Page 37 of Haven

His arm goes limp and he falls. I end up in a painful sprawl right beside his dead body.

But I’m alive, and he isn’t.

That’s a miracle as far as I’m concerned.

***

IT’S PROBABLY ONLYa few seconds later. I’m not in a fit condition to judge the passing of time. But the next thing I’m aware of is strong arms lifting me up, pulling me toward a male chest.

A familiar one. And a familiar smell.

Jackson.

He’s got his arms around me as I sprawl limply against him, and he’s murmuring things I’m starting to understand. “Faith. Oh fuck. Are you okay? Talk to me, kitten.”

His hands feel urgent as they move over my body, checking for injuries, and his voice is so soft but also sounds almost scared. It’s enough to get me to blink open my eyes and rasp out, “I think I’m okay.”

He makes a guttural sound, and his arms tighten around me for just a few seconds. Then he asks in closer to his normal voice, “Did they do anything to you?”

Of course they did things to me. They kidnapped me and tried to use me to get through the gates of our home. But I know what he’s asking, so I answer it. “They just punched me a few times. Nothing serious. They didn’t do anything else.”

I’m feeling clearer and steadier now, so I try to sit up. I like how it feels slumped over Jackson’s lap like this, his arms tight around me, but I can’t stay that way. Too many things have happened. Too many things need doing.

Then I remember something and say with a break in my voice, “They killed Brett.”

Jackson doesn’t look surprised. He must already have deduced that. It pains him the way it pains me. I can tell even though his expression is characteristically stoic. “Tell me where they left him. We’ll go bring him home.”

I give the best description I can, and then I try to stand up.

“You need to take it easy,” Jackson says, keeping one arm around me even as I try to pull away. “You look really beat up.”

“It’s not that bad. Just a few bruises.” I turn toward the main house and remember everything. “I still have to talk to Molly.”

“I know. We can do that. But you’re bleeding. Let me clean you up and go get Brett. Then we can talk to her.”

I don’t object to his plan. I don’t have the will or the energy to do so. I let him take me inside, sit me down in a chair in the kitchen, and take a wet cloth to clean the blood off my face and neck.

I thought my face was wet with tears, but some of it was blood. There’s a gash on my cheekbone. Jackson uses some of the antiseptic wash we found at the drugstore in Chester to disinfect the wound, and then he applies a bandage. His hands are very careful as he touches me. Gentle.

My hair is loose and messy and in the way. I lost the elastic I use to pull it back when Caden pulled out my ponytail. I push some of it back over my shoulders impatiently as I square my shoulders. “I’m really okay. A few of you need to go get Brett. Be really careful.”

“We will.” His hazel eyes are searching my face. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to talk to Molly.”

“Wait for me. The others say she’s been really bad today. She hasn’t eaten or drunk anything. Just wait for me, and I’ll—”

“I know you will. But I don’t want to wait anymore. I’d rather do it alone.” I manage to swallow over a new lump of pain in my throat. “She doesn’t have much time left.”

This is undeniably true. Jackson doesn’t argue. But he says very softly, “If she wants you to do anything, wait for me. I’ll do it for you.”

I know what he’s saying. Exactly what he’s saying. And I can barely swallow over the lump in my throat. I nod mutely.

He gives another urgent, searching scan of my face before he heads out of the kitchen. I hear him asking a few of the others to go with him to collect Brett’s body.

Molly is alone in the sickroom when I get there. She looks terrible. Pale and weak and sallow. She opens her eyes when I close the door behind me.

She isn’t delirious. She recognizes me. Says, “Faith. Is everything all right?”

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