Counterfactual

28 | mythoclast

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MYTHOCLAST

( — a destroyer or debunker of myths. )

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          THE WAIT FEELS NEVER ENDING.

          Even though Isla was thoughtful enough to put the call on speaker to let everyone else listen, which was the smart thing to do, it makes it feel a lot more unbearable. The beeps echo inside the vehicle and they lean forward in anticipation, wondering if they'll hear a voice they can recognize, and, if yes, who it belongs to.

          Except that never happens. Isla calls the number another time, two more times, then three, but they always get the same result. When she gives up and leans back against her seat, no one dares to open their mouth. Personally, Rowan doesn't do it because it would mean having to move way too many muscles, and his aching cheek wouldn't be too pleased.

          "It's not necessarily a dead end," Joanna insists, beating Micah to the usual optimistic comment. The glare Natalia throws her is a lot less enthusiastic than normal. "Maybe they're busy. It's a burner phone, right? I mean, maybe they heard what happened to Taylor and wanted to destroy all ties they had to her in case the police found out and came after them."

          "That just means they have something to hide," Isla remarks, while Micah spins around in his seat and starts the car. The Jeep's engine grumbles and the vehicle shakes, but the rumbling quickly turns into soft white noise that fades into the background when Micah turns on the radio. "If you're so desperate to get rid of evidence during a police investigation, it means one of two things; either you did it or you want to protect who did it. Miss me with that 'guilty conscience over nothing' crap."

          Something taps against the windows, as if there was someone standing outside and poking the glass, and Rowan jumps. He glances to his right in panic, even though the car is moving and there's no way someone could be keeping up with its steady pace across the roads, and Isla's head rests on his shoulder.

          He breathes.

          It's snowing. It's just snow, not some persecutory illusion his brain has manufactured.

          He finds it horribly odd how tonight has quickly taken a turn for the worse. He spent most of the day not doing anything productive, since there's not much he can do without Gabriel sending him his notes, but then dinner time came and everything went downhill from there. Truth be told, he can't remember having invited all those people for dinner at his apartment, even if they often show up without prior warning, and it can't be a good sign.

          It's like history is repeating itself, with all those hypo and hypervigilance symptoms coming back all at once, but he thought those problems had been solved. He truly thought he had broken free from the hold it had on him.

         He needs to find a way to distract himself during the ride back to his apartment, where all the remaining cars are parked, so he won't think about that and about how everything has gone wrong. It's totally not environment-friendly, as they're all going to the same place afterwards, except for him, so they could have easily fit inside the Jeep. He glances at Isla from the corner of his eye, and, when she feels his eyes on her, she tilts her head up.

         Whenever they drive past a streetlamp, the orange lights cast highlights and shadows on her face, and he's rendered speechless. Just the mere sight of her—so exhausted and disappointed—combined with the failed phone call, being punched in the face, having a gash on his arm caused by a pocket knife, Jasper's name being brought up, the conversation with KJ, letting Rhiannon leave his apartment when she could barely walk in a straight line, reading Taylor's diary . . . it all feels like too much.