Page 74 of The Secrets We Left Behind
“You’re worried we won’t even make it out of the village,” he finished for her.
She groaned. “Exactly. I mean, how can we expect to even make half an hour, an hour on foot? There could be Nazis at every turn and darkness isn’t going to save us.”
“Because we’ve done it before,” he said. “And we can do it again. That’s why it’s going to work.”
She nodded. “Perhaps.” The last thing she wanted was to be negative, but could they really be that lucky a second time? And what if the boat wasn’t even there, and they were waiting for nothing? “I feel like we’re leaving so much up to chance, and I don’t like it.”
“Cate, we’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” she cried. “Jack, don’t try and placate me like I’m a child, of course I’m going to worry! There’s every chance that any of us could be shot dead a week from today.”
He pushed his shirt down and sat up, and she bristled as he reached for her, pulling her hands away and settling them on her lap. But she knew that her anger was less about Jack and more about her. Ever since they’d kissed, guilt washed over her every time she so much as looked at him.
Her fiancé had been presumed dead for less than a year, and instead of continuing to mourn him and give him the respect he deserved, she’d fallen straight into Jack’s arms. And she couldn’t even blame being stuck in the house together, because she’d fallen for him back when he was one of her patients in hospital. She might have held back her feelings then and tried to keep her distance, but the fire had already been lit, all the same.
“Cate, what’s wrong? You’re usually the calm, capable one,” Jack said, doing his best to catch her eye.
“I’ve told you, I’m worried,” she snapped.
But the way he looked at her, the way he always looked at her, meant she couldn’t lie to him. She was worried, but it was so much more than that. She stood and reached for his things, the clotheshe’d been wearing the day before, and folded them, needing to do something, liking the feel of his jacket in her hands.
And then something fell to the floor. She bent to reach for it, her fingers closing over it as Jack leapt forward, grunting as he scooped it up and tucked it into his pocket.
But he wasn’t fast enough. She’d have recognized the photo anywhere.
“Where did you get that?” she gasped.
He shuffled back, his hand still covering his pocket.
“Jack, give me the photo,” she demanded.
“Cate, please, I can explain.” His voice was a whisper, cracked, dry.
“Give me the photo,” she said, trying not to cry, as Jack slowly reached into his pocket and pulled the crumpled, lined photo out and passed it to her. He held it between his fingers, and she could see that they were trembling, but she didn’t care. When he finally let it go and the photo dropped into her hand, she froze.
It was her.
It was the photograph of her, on a summer’s day, before the war. A photo that only one man was supposed to have in his possession.
“How did you get this?” she asked, backing away from him.
“Please, Cate, let me explain. I can—”
“Don’t come any closer to me!” she cried, looking around, feeling like a trapped animal.How does he have this?
But as she turned to run for the door, still clutching the photograph, Jack was too fast, loping past her and slamming into it, his back to the timber, blocking her way.
“Cate, please, just sit down and I’ll tell you the truth—give me the chance to explain.”
“Explain how you have the photograph I gave my fiancé before he left for war? My fiancé who’s missing, presumed dead?” She wascrying now, tears streaking down her face. “I don’t even know you, Jack, do I? I have no idea who you really are!”
He slumped down, skidding his back down the door until he was sitting in front of it, but standing or sitting, it was still blocked. She was still trapped.
Cate backed away to the farthest corner of the attic space, sitting under the window and staring at Jack, wondering what else he’d concealed from her. And as she looked at the picture, faded but still so obviously her, a deep pain erupted in her stomach. There was no reasonable explanation for him having the photo in his possession. How long had he even had it?
“How did you get this?” she whispered. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”
“I haven’t been honest with you, Cate,” he said, shaking his head, his regret painted all over his face. “I should have been, but I haven’t.”
