Page 85 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
He rolls his eyes, impatient. “Yeah, she’s fucking alive—that one ain’t dead—” he gives me a look. “And she’s close.”
“Close how?”
“Like, probably outside the building close.”
I swallow through my dry throat. I feel like a puzzle that’s taken weeks to complete and then thrown at the wall.
“And the Tilden’s? Anything on them?”
George shakes his head. “Radio silence. Josie moved to Milan eight months ago, doesn’t speak to Jude from what I know and Jude, well, no one knows, really. Still shooting up, though. Alb found a hospital record from five months ago, he was in a coma from an overdose.”
“Okay.” I nod. A bit unsure of what to do or say.
“But as for the sister, I don’t know what she looks like or how old she is. She’s off grid—just like he was. They’re not like us, from what I’ve gathered. Alb’s doing more digging but in the meantime, you just need to stick with your security.”
I nod again. “And Phoebe?”
“She’s safe,” he rolls his eyes. “Of course, she’s fucking safe.”
I leave it for a few minutes, thinking about it, trying to piece it all together and still coming back to that one moment, that one night, that I had fought tooth and nail to forget about. I tried to bleed the moment out of me like I did with the drugs but it never left. It was persistent. It’s clung to me all these years. Following me around like a ghost and now it’s got me, pinned me down and it won’t let me go until it’s sucked out every bit of life inside of me, making me a twin to its transparent body.
“If it ever comes down to it,” I lock eyes with George, he stares back. “It’s Phoebe over me, alright?”
He says nothing but his jaw twitches.
“If this was Athena—”
“It won’t come to that, Arth.”
“But if it does,” I stress. “It’s Phoebe over me—in whatever circumstance, you save her over me. Every fucking time.”
Again, he remains quiet.
“I don’t ask you for a lot but this is the only thing. Do you hear me, George?”
After a moment, he clears his throat. “I hear you, mate.”
George’s phone rings, he picks it up and nods at me to leave.
When I reach the main floor to the club, I see Phoebe walking in through the door, head down, on her phone.
“Oh,” she looks up. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Yeah,” I shuffle awkwardly. “Just talking with George.”
She puts her phone in her bag, smiles. “Anything of interest?”
I shrug. “Not really?”
She frowns, tilts her head. “You look a bit sad?”
“I’m fine.”
She nods, her eyebrows still knitted together. She knows when I’m sad. She knows when I’m happy. She knows when I’m high. She knows when I’m drunk. She knows when I’m excited—she fucking knows me the same way I know the tendons and veins on the back of my hand.
And I hurt her.
It creeps up, behind my head like a shadow, its hand clamping over my mouth. I hurt her.
