The smell of damp and rot is burning my nose. The drip-drip of the leaking tap in the kitchen is pounding in my brain. I can hear Owen's deep voice as he talks on the phone, his feet sticking to the soiled floor as he pads around the room. I lean back against the settee, trying to ignore the clinging, musty scent and dark stains on the fabric. My device is bleeping wildly, so I keep my focus on changing the battery and not on Owen's phone call. Or the unsettling feeling of not really knowing where I was or how safe we were here.
Everything is a blur after we'd left the Steele's. I'd followed Owen blindly, barely noticing the streets we passed or buildings that watched us judgementally as we fled. The house he's brought me to is falling apart. It sits in the centre of a street where every house looks in a similar state of disrepair. We kept our heads low, hoping the dark night would keep us hidden from prying eyes. The streetlights felt like spotlights as we'd darted across the road. Owen said the house belonged to Davey. I didn't ask what for, but it wasn't hard to work out. It wasn't for anything good.
I'm sitting in the front room. Old-fashioned wallpaper peels from the walls, the carpet is so dirty I'm not even sure what colour it is. Years of dirt and neglect seem to cling to every surface. I finish changing the battery. I slip the old one into my bag and lean back. I want to get up but my body is too weak. So I flick through channels on the TV, just for something to do with my hands – my phone's dead and I have no interest in charging it. There was no one I wanted to hear from right now who wasn't in this house. I don't pay any attention to soaps and crime drama repeats as I flick through. The TV is so old it's not even a flatscreen. I settle for some talk show. But I'm not sure I'm absorbing a single thing the guests are saying.
Owen walks in from the kitchen. He looks drained. His face is etched with shadows. His skin marble pale. He leans against the doorframe and just watches me. I feel the weight of his gaze, the emotion behind it. Finally, he moves forward, sinking to the ground before me. He exhales and leans forward, his hands on either side of me, gripping the settee.
"It's tonight. Taggart has a shipment coming in later. I'll go with them when they leave."
I swallow hard, looking at the anger, the sadness burning into his features. He hooks his finger under my chin and lifts my face. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me.
"It's not a life, is it? Hiding, maybe forever."
He smiles at me sadly, thinking hard before he speaks.
"When my mum left, I had nothing. No way of surviving. I didn't want to be shipped off to some home. And once Taggart took an interest in me, no one wanted to help me anyway. I didn't realise then what he was doing. He made sure I had no other options. When you sell your soul to the devil, you never get to be free. This isn't any different. Not really."
I swallow hard and my hands go to his shoulders. I let my aching body shift forward, using him for support.
"We could keep looking. There are answers, there have to be. If David killed Damien, there must be a way to prove it. We were stupid to break in like that. We had no idea what we were doing. We could try again?"
He runs his hand through my hair, pushing it behind my ear. He doesn't look like he's thinking about my words at all. Just taking in my features like he's never going to see me again. My chest tightens at the thought of it. I knew what life was like without him. I wasn't sure I could face that again, even if I had no choice.
"Taggart says he'll keep you safe. He'll protect you from David if it comes to it. I warned him about Leon. I'm not sure he sees him as a threat, but he should. This isn't bad, Calla. It's better than prison."
"When you go... I'll never see you again, will I?"
He sighs and looks away. Slowly, he pulls himself to stand.
"I'm going to have a shower. And we need to get you home..."
"I'm coming with you." I snap. And he chuckles. I'm affronted, but I realise his eyes shine with pride and not derision.
"That's not a good idea. Do you know what this is? What's happening tonight? Drugs, Calla, and god knows what else. You want to be connected to that?"
"I don't care."
I stare at him hard until a small smile shatters his dark expression.
"Fine. I know better than to argue with you." He glances down at the straps of my device. "What about that? Can you... will it last?"
I roll my eyes at the question. Folding my arms across my chest, feeling the straps, the hard blocks of the batteries digging into my skin.
"Yes. I'll be fine. I'm fine." I snap. He tilts his head and watches me intently. I meet his gaze with a stare of my own.
"I can deal with anything. I can deal with prison. If I had to. I can deal with hiding in a country I don't know and can probably never leave. I can deal with being Taggart's property till the end of time. As long as I know you're here, living a life. You're a fire, Calla. And as long as you're here, burning the world down, I can do anything." His words fill my body with feeling. I'm overflowing with it. Too many for me to name. I stand up and move closer to him, close enough that I'm pressed against his chest, his hands travelling to my waist.
"I want to go with you..."
"I just said..."
"Not just to say goodbye. Wherever Davey is sending you... I want to go, too."
He groans, avoiding my gaze. He pulls me closer, and if there was any part of me that still believed we were over, that the feelings between us had been replaced by anger or indifference, it had snapped like the brittle lie it was. I'm pressed against his chest, close enough to feel his heart. My arms go around his neck and he leans closer, his mouth against my skin. He doesn't say anything for the longest of time. His throat bobs and when he speaks I know there are a thousand more words, he just can't force himself to utter.
"You have to stay here. You have to get better. Get your heart and live."
Bitterness descends, and I move to pull away, but his grip is iron-tight.
"Owen!" Tears are forming in my eyes, and I'm angry and scared and sad. It all comes to the surface, and it's all too much. He won't let me go. My hands slam against his chest. He leans down to cup my face with his hands. When I speak, the words seem to shatter on my tongue. "This isn't fair. None of it."
"I know, beautiful."
We stay there silently for a moment. Just pressed together, the soft fabric beneath my cheek, his warm hands slipping under my shirt and caressing the bare skin of my back. Someone is singing on the talk show, and the music from the TV is the only sound around us.
"When I heard about Damien, and that they thought it was you... all I could think about is what would happen if they didn't find me a heart. If you were in prison or forever on the run, all alone. I stopped being afraid of dying a long time ago. I might be angry, but I'm not afraid. I could stay here and die, anyway.
"You're not going to die. They'll find you a heart."
I snort and chuckle, pressing my head against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt.
"And how do you know that?"
"Taggart thinks we're written in the stars. It must be true, right?"
I giggle, and he laughs. He lifts up my chin. I think he's going to kiss me. I want him too. But he doesn't. He stares at me for a moment, then his hands go to my hips and gently we sway to the music from the documentary. I laugh when I realise he's dancing – we're dancing. I let my body move with him, our foreheads pressed together.
"It's going to be OK," Owen says, his voice coarse. The words cracking under the weight of the emotion.
"No, it's not," I say. "But it was. Wasn't it? Us together. It was so much better than OK."
"Yes. So much better than OK."
And for a while we're just there, swaying, holding each other. Even as the programme ends, even as the time slips away from us like sand. Goodbye and forever are the only words echoing in my mind.