Page 94 of ILY
Except none of this is normal because Thorne is still holding the fuckingtooth.
“Shit. Shit! What does this even mean?”
“Nothing. Not…necessarily.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, which, who the fuck carries around a handkerchief—isn’t that just for the movies? He wraps the tooth in it, then slips it into his pocket before reaching for me.
“Please don’t touch me with tooth hands,” I beg.
He switches from his left hand to his right, which isn’t better, but it is something. The weight of his palm against my lower back is soothing, and it makes my struggle for breath a little easier.
“It’s very possible that one of the farm workers got a tooth knocked out from an accident. Or maybe one of the construction people who came to work on the foundation for the silo.”
I feel a little panicked. “Right, the foundation for the structure that was never built, so is probably housing a bunch of bodies?” I’m well aware my voice sounds hysterical, and from the way Thorne is handling me like an animal gone rabid, he can definitely hear it.
“More tea,” he says.
“If I drink any more tea, I’m going to be pissing all afternoon,” I complain, but I let him lead me back up to the house, which is a comfort in itself.
Even if it might be some kind of serial killer safe house.
Shit.
He sits me down at the table, then kneels in front of me, and I have no idea where he got the ice pack so fast because I hadn’t noticed him leaving my side, he presses it against the back of my neck.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. They’re a lifesaver. Now, where’s the ointment?”
I tell him, and he disappears and then reappears, kneels in front of me, and rubs the cream onto the bottom of my foot before wrapping it in a bandage.
We sit silently for a little while after that, and I feel a little better by the time he takes both of my hands in his. Oh. He’s handling me again. It’s fair. I’m about ten seconds from a total meltdown.
First Michael, and now this?
What god did I piss off? What ancient ritual item did I break, and what curse did I release?
“I’m going to spend the day looking around the property, okay?” His voice is a soothing rumble. “I have a feeling a lot of what we’re looking for is either in the cellar or buried on the grounds.”
Hearing him just say it like that? Yeah, it’s a lot. It was okay when it was an abstract concept, but with it all in my face now? It’s too much.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
He strokes his thumbs over the tops of my hands. “But at the end of the day,” he goes on slowly, “I’m going to have to call this in.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll need your cooperation and permission to let the FBI forensic team do what they need to do. That is probably going to mean tearing into your house foundation. And the floors. Probably the walls…”
“So basically they’re going to demolish the place?” I ask, my voice kind of light and thready.
The look on his face tells me what I need to know.
“And let me guess, insurance doesn’t cover that shit.”
He bows his head. “I don’t know what’s in your policy, but…not usually. No.”
“Well, fuck. There goes my retirement.” In order to be able to afford anything, I’m probably going to have to work again. That cash I found under my aunt’s mattress is not enough to live on.
God. I know I can ask Robbie for an interpreting spot at the college if I need to. It’s not the worst job. But I don’t feel like I’ve actually had any time to recuperate from the major burnout from my job before.
