The Numbered Corpses (Elysium #4)

Chapter Twelve

Trinket could still feel the blood on her hands as she stumbled through the front door. Wiping her palms against her skirt over and over again, she desperately tried to force the image of the murdered dove out of her memory. Why did her mind insist on haunting her with such morbid visions? Was this her punishment for killing someone who'd done nothing but love her?

It's what you deserve.

Killer.

Killer.

Killer.

Letting out a frustrated growl, she stormed down the hallway and went straight to the scullery sink where she scoured her hands under the running water. She had to get it off. That feeling. That dirty, sticky sensation of being branded for life. She'd get it off if it was the last thing she did.

She would move on.

She would forget.

She'd be happy, blast it all!

Someone caught her hands and tore them out from under the scalding water coming from the faucet. Trinket gasped as she was tugged away from the sink, nearly tripping over her own feet. The same hands that had grabbed hold of her kept her upright, and once she could focus again, she realized they belonged to Daphne. She was staring at her so incredulously that Trinket half-expected a tongue-lashing. Well, minus the tongue.

"Oh, Daphne, I'm so sorry," she whispered, looking down at her palms. Now they really were covered in blood, though this time her own. "I don't know what came over me."

Releasing a sigh, Daphne took Trinket's wrist and pulled her into the kitchen where she had her sit at the table while she fetched her homemade balm. As Daphne went about wetting a rag, Trinket gazed down at her hands. They were raw and red, with shallow cuts that must have been made by her nails. What had she been thinking? Why had she allowed herself to react like that?

Daphne sat down beside her, taking her injured hands and gently tending to the cuts. "Daphne, I am so sorry," Trinket repeated.

Shaking her head, Daphne waved her apology away and she stooped over her hands. All the same, there was a line of worry between her eyes.

"I had a rather bad hallucination while I was out," Trinket explained. "Apparently its effects are lingering."

Daphne stole a glimpse at her as she dabbed a small amount of balm onto the cuts. Those warm, brown eyes of hers were filled with such concern it made Trinket want to throw herself into the woman's arms and tell her everything. But she couldn't. She couldn't tell anyone. That would reveal too much. Too much that she wanted to forget.

"Please don't tell Booker," Trinket pleaded, grasping Daphne's hands and ignoring the stinging pain in her palms. "It will only make him worry, and at the moment, he has more than enough to be concerned about."

Daphne freed one of her hands and laid it on Trinket's cheek, shaking her head slowly. She bit her lip as her eyes darted to the kitchen doorway. Leaning forward, she gave Trinket a very pointed look. Though she couldn't say exactly what message Daphne was trying to convey, Trinket could certainly guess.

"I usually do tell him," she said, stretching the truth a little. "But in this instance, it won't make a difference. Please, Daphne. I'm asking you as a friend."

Daphne's eyes wandered back and forth, and Trinket worried the stubborn woman was going to refuse. But finally, she gave another sigh and nodded reluctantly.

Trinket let out a long breath. "Thank you. Truly, you have no idea how much I appreciate your prudence."

Quirking her mouth into a sad smile, Daphne patted Trinket's knee and rose from her chair to tend to the stew on the stove. Glancing at her hands once more, Trinket banished the vision of the murdered dove and forced herself onto her feet.