Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,133
and pieces of what happened at The Bell & Hand each time I’ve awoken. Jack coming after me with the gun, him calling me little bird. I should have realized it then, in that moment. Ian Coney had said the same thing to me at The Octagon. Both times I’d been too determined not to die that I hadn’t it given much thought. “Did they get him?” I ask, flicking my attention between my brother and sister. “Please tell me they got him.”
Josie stares at me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “They did,” she says. And then, louder, “They did! They put handcuffs on him, Isla. Said that he killed the priest!”
A dead priest. A dead bitch.
Self-righteous anger, both for myself and for Father Bootham, has me edging out, “Good. He bloody deserves everything that’s coming to him.”
Josie blinks.
Peter clears his throat. “I thought we were on Saxon’s side?”
Everything in me goes still. “What? I don’t understand. Saxon—”
“Oh, hell.” Peter drops onto the corner of the bed, near my feet. “Oh, hell, you don’t remember.”
“Dr. Longstrom said I passed out from the blood loss. What don’t I remember?” I feel the telltale swell of worry rise within me. “Peter, what don’t I remember?”
He exchanges an inscrutable look with Josie. Rakes his fingers through his messy hair and then drops his head forward. “Saxon saved you, Isla. We were . . . we were waiting in the car like you told us to, and he was at—he was at the church. You know, the one across the street from the pub. He went in to find you and when he came out you were . . . Well, you were—” He gestures at me, apparently unable to find the appropriate words.
Doing my best to ignore the erratic thud of my heartbeat, I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “Who took him?” I look to Josie. “You said someone took him. Who?”
She stares just past me, as if unable to make direct eye contact when she admits, “The Met. They came and they took him.”
I spend a full day fighting every doctor and nurse to allow police entry into my room. Finally, at the twenty-fourth hour, an older gentleman in the classic navy blues of the Met’s uniform strolls inside, his custodian helmet tucked under one arm. On his chest, his badge reads T. CRAWFORD.
“Miss Quinn,” he greets, his tone dripping with the sort of saccharine sweetness that implies pity, “I heard you were in need of an officer.”
Pushing from my heels, I shove myself farther up in the bed. The IV tubes and other medical equipment aren’t doing me any favors in looking like a woman ready to issue any warning, any threat, to get her man released from prison.
“I have evidence that Saxon Priest was not the one who killed Father William Bootham.”
Indolently, the officer lifts one brow. “That case is closed. Priest’s blood was found on Bootham.”
“He put it there,” I argue, all too aware of how ridiculous I sound. “But only afterward, so that I would . . .”
“I’m aware that the priest’s body was found in your flat.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “He was, yes. But neither of us murdered Bootham. It was—”
“The Commissioner himself confirmed with the coroner, Miss Quinn. There’s no doubt about who the murderer is. Now, why would Priest then drag the poor fellow over to your place? That’s an answer we don’t have.” He sets his hands on the metal footboard and leans in, his helmet still stuck beneath his armpit. “Care to tell us why that was?”
“Because it wasn’t him!” My heart rate spikes and the residual ache from the gunshot wound tugs at the surrounding muscles and tendons. Dr. Longstrom told me that I’m lucky that the bullet only glanced a lung as it went through my chest. In one way, out the other. But Jack’s damn powerplay of digging his fingers where they didn’t belong pushed me over. I breathe, heavily, and press a hand to my clavicle. “It wasn’t him,” I repeat, evenly this time. “Jack—he shot me at The Bell & Hand. He was rifling through the Priests’ desk. Told me that he—that he wanted me to scream, just as Father Bootham had when he’d killed him.”
Tapping on his helmet, Crawford studies me thoughtfully. “Jack, what?”
“Pardon?”
“His last name? This Jack who supposedly shot you.”
“Supposedly?” I echo, my jaw falling open. “Sir, he did shoot me.”