Page 83 of Saint of the Shadows

With his voice low and serious, he continued, “You could’ve died taking him on. If you followed the plan—”

If she had just left with Vincent, the Bloodsucker would’ve obliterated Tobias. He had to have known that… Oh God, had he expected to die? She swiveled to face him. “Ever occur to you that you’re a part of the plan?”

He moved his gaze to the fizzling light above them, focusing on anything, it seemed, to avoid looking at her. With a grunt, he arched his back into the couch. Still, he didn’t look at her. Àpropos of nothing, he said, “I went to an AA meeting once. Hung out at the back because everyone sounded like freaks. You should’ve heard what they did for a drink. Sure, I went through a divorce, but it wasn’t because I was—”

“An alcoholic?”

“Right.” He clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times. “But this guy leaves the front of the meeting and sits near the back with me. He asks if I recognized him. When I worked a beat, I saw a lot of faces, and I racked my brain to remember himuntil it clicked. He was a drunk I had picked up off a curb, and instead of bringing him down, I drove him home to his row house on the Westside. So, I’m drinking watery coffee with this guy, and he tells me he keeps a picture of one of his daughters in a spot to always remind him why he quit. A picture of his eldest daughter, the fighter, who was so smart, fierce, and generous that he couldn’t quite figure out how he had any hand in making her. ‘She has enough heart to carry this whole city out of Hell on her back,’ he said.”

The foolish hyperbole sounded like her dad.

“I figured I could do the same—put a picture up and make a promise to myself, to her.”

It dawned on her—the picture in his kitchen with the curly brown hair and freckles? “That picture’s your daughter! Why didn’t you tell me? I’m so sorry. I cracked a joke like a total jerk.”

“You can be a total jerk, kid, but I like that about you. It reminds me you aren’t perfect.”

She turned the corner of her mouth in a crooked smile.

“We had her young, the ex and I, and married because that’s what we thought you’re supposed to do, but all I left room for were the three w’s: work, whiskey, and women. For that, I lost my wife, but I never wanted to lose her. When she was old enough to call the shots, she didn’t want to see me anymore, and after a few cases wrecked my visitation weekends, I agreed. She already called her stepdad, ‘Dad,’ for Chrissakes.” He dropped theice bag, and the thud reverberated through the room. “I couldn’t be like that guy at the meeting. He didn’t give up. I gave up. Last year, I left her graduation with a married woman only to wind up alone under an overpass, drinking a cheap pint of rye. And I keep thinking that someday I’ll quit, someday I’ll be good enough to face her, to apologize, to be more than a sperm donor, but when is that someday gonna be, my deathbed?”

Marisol shrugged. Did he want her to feel sorry for him and provide comfort? She wasn’t sure if she could. Instead, wariness knotted into her. She hadn’t forgiven Dad for his failures and held on to them like her childhood home’s plaster scars. And of course, it may be well after his deathbed before she would ever forgive Caz.

He sniffed and brushed his good eye with a knuckle. “But you believe in me when you got no reason to, and I get these crazy ideas like I could call her up, apologize and mean it, and maybe she’ll even let me sit in a decent row at her wedding. And it’s because of you. How’s that for twenty years of pent-up confessions?”

Marisol faked a laugh because there was Tobias, reaching ridiculous conclusions about her again. “That’ll be three Hail Mary’s. One to mess up, the other for practice, and the final one to forgive yourself because you can be better.” The knots inside her loosened.

He lifted his head and caught her gaze with one shining eye. “You’re what men write poetry about.”

Her lips mouthed, “Oh,” and she looked at her hands, hoping some token of appreciation would appear in her palms. But she had nothing. If only regenerative powers radiated from her hands. Not simply to ease the swelling of his bruises with a gentle graze of her fingers, but to hold her hand against his heart, make sure he never experienced an ounce of pain the rest of his life because those were the things he deserved.

But she had nothing, so she studied Vincent and watched his bandaged back rise and fall as he slept. That is, she had nothing but the truth. “I thought you were him,” she blurted, as if brevity alone could stop the impact. “When I kissed you, I thought I was kissing the Patron Saint. And the night of the attack? I didn’t stand you up because of it. I thought I had met up with you as the Patron Saint, but it was him.”

Tobias sighed and stared at the ground. His unobstructed pupil shifted rapidly from side to side, as if he calculated the weight of what she had told him. In borrowed clothes, Tobias easily became Vincent. Both faced an unending battle for Justice, and both needed to stand on the side of good. It’d be simple to say that the good pieces about Tobias made him like Vincent, but something in her said that when Vincent dressed up to fight for Justice, that a part of him became Tobias too.

He scraped his fingernails against his thick stubble. “That’s stupid. We look nothing alike.”

“Stupid is right.” She’d accept stupid. That was enough for her. But for him? “My mom thinks you’re cute.”

“Me and Novotny women go together like peanut butter and jelly.”

“Cinnamon and sugar.”

“Coffee and doughnuts.”

In the middle of laughing, the horrifying conclusion tensed in every one of her muscles. “But stay away from my sister.” It was one thing for Mom to mine ounces of glee watching Tobias replace a lightbulb; it was quite another imagining Nicole vaulting over a problematic age gap with a flirty quip.

He placed his sweaty hand on the top of her foot. The warmth echoed. “It’s enough.” She listened to his breathing. It synced with Vincent’s.

The clamor of the rickety gurney caught her attention as Vincent shifted on to his back and groaned. Marisol sprung to his side.

His eyelids fluttered open, and his irises fluctuated. Finally, he grinned. The pointed corners of his mouth grew wicked and assured. “You love me.”

“I do.” Marisol smiled and blinked a few tears away. They trickled down her cheeks to her chin. Vincent brushed the underside of her jawline, catching the tears in his hand. When she lifted her chin as he touched it, he moved his fingers to her neck.

“Bruises.” He traced the line of her tendon. “I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” she hoarsely said and stared at his feet. If she looked at him, the look he was giving her—the love in his eyes would prod her open, and she wouldn’t stop crying.

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