The Numbered Corpses (Elysium #4)

Chapter Fourteen

Trinket managed to stay awake for a good two hours before the excitement of the day finally caught up to her. When she woke, she found one of the pages of the book she'd fallen asleep on plastered to her cheek. Gently removing it as she sat up, she discovered Booker's jacket draped over her like a blanket. She smiled as she pulled it closer and turned her eyes to its owner. The day had apparently taken a toll on him, too. Despite the many cups of tea he'd downed as he searched through his library for some insight into this game, he was now passed out atop a book filled with images of dissected frogs.

Rising to her feet, Trinket gently touched his shoulder and knelt beside him. "Booker," she whispered.

Nothing but the rustle of book pages stirred by his easy breathing.

"Booker," she said a little more loudly, shaking him slightly.

He groaned as he shifted in his chair and hid his face behind his arms.

A smile pulling at her lips, she took his arm and put it around her shoulders. She stood up slowly, trying to ease him onto his feet. But he was more weight than she could bear, and she practically fell into his lap.

"Is it morning?" he asked, his voice hoarse as he opened his bleary eyes.

"Not quite," Trinket said, getting back on her feet and trying again to lift him out of his chair. "Come on, you need to go to bed."

"But I haven't figured it out yet," he mumbled.

He didn't resist as she slipped her arm around his waist and led him into the hallway. "Yes, but you can't expect to solve the entire mystery in one night. You have to be fresh and ready for tomorrow in case another body shows up."

She opened the door to his bedroom and helped him inside. He practically collapsed onto the bed as she hung his jacket over the chair by the writing desk. When she turned back to him, he was sprawled out on top of the covers, an arm draped over his eyes. She gave a soft smile and made her way to leave when he called out to her.

"What if I'm not smart enough to figure it out?"

She glanced over her shoulder, and even with his face half-covered, she could picture the worried look in his eyes, a deep line etched between his brows. Returning to the bed, she sat beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. He finally removed his arm to meet her gaze, and sure enough, that same nostalgic sadness was there.

"That's impossible, Mr. Larkin," she replied. "You're the most brilliant person I've ever met."

"I'm nothing compared to Benedict. I'm going to disappoint him. He'll realize what a waste of time I've been. And he'll move on. Forever."

Were those tears welling up in his eyes?

"Booker, that's ridiculous. He's your friend," Trinket said.

"And my rival. Such lousy competition I've turned out to be."

Trinket clenched her jaw. What kind of friend would put someone he cared about through so much anguish? Did Benedict not realize how distraught Booker was over this game?

"I just want to prove to him I'm worthy of his admiration," Booker went on. "But maybe he'll never admire me. Maybe there's nothing to admire."

"That's enough."

He flinched at her words, and even she was shocked by how sharp they'd come out. Softening her expression, she again began running her fingers through his hair.

"I admire you, Booker," she said. "And if Benedict can't see how amazing you are, frankly, I don't believe he's the genius you claim he is."

A smile spread over his face. "You're too good for me, Trinket."