Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Will you talk to me?” she asked at last.
“I will bite off my tongue first,” he said. “I do not need it to play.”
“Do you mind if I keep talking, then?”
“It wouldn’t matter if I minded,” Jean said. “Prisoners have no rights.”
“You’re a patient, not a prisoner,” Dobson reminded him gently. “But if you would rather not speak, we can stay like this a while longer.”
She would get bored of sitting with him sooner or later, but for now she seemed content to gaze into the distance and think her quiet thoughts. The longer she waited, the harder it was to ignore her. Jean had been looking for Riko and Zane for weeks, and their prolonged absence had left him adrift. Some plump shrink was not a valid substitute for a Raven, especially not the King, but Jean was desperate enough he couldn’t help but find it comforting. It was enough to distract him from his reading, and he finally closed his notebook. He expected her to open her mouth now that he’d given up ignoring her, but she didn’t even look at him.
“Take me to the court,” he said.
He expected pushback, but all she said was, “Can you make it out to my car?”
“I will,” he said, shifting to the edge of the bed.
His knee throbbed when he got up, but it could take his weight in short bursts. He hobbled around the bed toward the door. Dobson had a hand up in a silent offer of assistance, but she kept her hand near her side so he wouldn’t feel obligated to take her up on it. When he ignored her, she went ahead of him down the hall to speak with Abby. Jean heard snatches of it as he carefully made his way down the hall and knew Dobson was borrowing Abby’s key and combo for the stadium.
After so many weeks trapped inside Abby’s house, the night air was invigorating enough to send a chill down Jean’s spine. He’d been poisoning himself, he knew, fighting Abby every time she tried to open a window or pull the blanket down from over her curtains. He’d been trying to recreate the stifling conditions of the Nest, frantic for something familiar to hold him together when everything else spiraled out of his control. He hadn’t realized just how important Edgar Allan was to the Ravens’ wellbeing. Apathy toward his major and an unrelenting exhaustion made his classes such a chore he’d always looked past the blessing of fresh air.
“I started with one,” Renee had said, and while Jean couldn’t put stock in her faith or her lighthearted assurances, he still tapped his thumb to his index finger and thought, a cool evening breeze. He felt foolish as he did it, but he also felt—alive, somehow, grounded by something other than his team’s vitriol.
They were halfway to the Foxhole Court before Dobson said, “I admit sports are not my forte. I’ve always been more into theater—plays and musicals and the like. My grasp on Exy is still a bit shaky despite all these years at Palmetto State, but from what I understand it’s indoor lacrosse?”
“Using feigned ignorance as bait is transparent,” Jean said.
Dobson only asked, “Are there cutouts on the walls for the goalkeepers’ nets, or…?”
“There aren’t nets,” Jean said, too offended to help himself. “There are sensors in the wall to—” He cut himself off in favor of muttering rudely in French. He didn’t want to have a conversation with this annoying woman, but the longer he tried to ignore her the deeper her idiotic words seemed to burrow into his brain. Finally, he gave an irritated huff and launched into the shortest explanation he could. Dobson listened to it all in obedient silence, and Jean managed to wrap it up as she parked at the stadium.
“Thank you,” she said. “I wondered.”
“I refuse to think none of them explained it to you,” he said. “Kevin would have.”
“I wondered if you cared enough to correct me,” she returned easily, and gestured out her windshield toward the stadium. “I wasn’t sure if we were here for comfort or contrition.”
Contrition. It could have been chance that she used that word, but Jean was feeling untrusting. The look on her face had Jean reaching for his door handle, but he couldn’t look away from her even when he found it. “You’ve been talking to Kevin.”
“I am his therapist,” Dobson pointed out, calm in the face of his jagged accusation. “He remembers how difficult it was to trust me when he transferred, and as such gave me open permission to share anything we’ve discussed if it will make you more comfortable with me. I would really like to talk to you, Jean.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Not today, maybe,” she allowed. “But if you are ever willing to talk, please know that I want to hear you. If it is easier once you’ve gone to California and have the safety of distance, I am willing to wait for you. At the risk of sounding immodest, I daresay I’m the most qualified person to speak to you about what you’re dealing with right now.”