The Wish Collector
Page 32

“Not complaining exactly. This just seems like a sudden leap, and we’re wondering why all the secrecy. Where have you been going? What’s motivating this? What have you been doing?” Cecil frowned as Jonah moved more fully into the light. “What happened to you?” he asked, his gaze squinting as he seemed to peer more closely at Jonah’s face. What? Was the man going senile?
“A bomb blew up in my face.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not that. You’re bleeding.”
Jonah brought his fingers to his lip where the man had gotten in his one shot. When he brought his fingers away, there was a smear of blood on them. “I . . .” He shook his head, dropping his hand. “I saw a woman being assaulted. I stepped in. It was nothing.”
Cecil regarded him for several long beats. “Nothing,” he repeated.
Jonah turned, heading for the door. “Right. Nothing.”
“Like you going out after dark on secret missions around the city?”
Jonah stopped, laughing as he turned to Cecil. “Secret missions? Jesus, Cecil. I . . .” He tossed his hands up and let them drop. Cecil was a nosy bastard. “I went to see a girl.”
That seemed to bring Cecil up short. “A girl? The one you met at the wall?”
Jonah sighed. “Yes. Her name is Clara. She’s a . . . friend. There was a masquerade ball, and I went to see her. That’s all.”
“That’s all.”
“Are you a parrot now?” Jonah let out a breath, running his hand over his short hair, feeling the scarred spots on the left side of his scalp where the hair had never grown back. “I’m just . . . getting out, Cecil. I was anonymous tonight at that ball, and I’m anonymous under that helmet, so I can ride my bike and be someone else for a while, okay?”
“Clara,” Cecil repeated, clearly picking that out as the important piece of information Jonah had just given.
“Yes, Clara.”
“Who is she?”
Jonah turned again and headed inside of the house, toward his room. Cecil trailed. “Just a girl.”
“Just a girl.”
Jonah let out a frustrated breath, turning once more. The old man came up short. “Yes, just a girl. A girl named Clara.”
Cecil leaned in, looking at him closely. “You’re pining.”
“Pining?”
Cecil crossed his arms. “Mm-hmm. Definitely pining. The way you say her name. It’s like you’re saying a prayer.”
Oh lord. The old man was losing his marbles. Or maybe he was extremely perceptive. Jonah preferred to believe the former. Although . . . Christ, yes, he did want Clara. Yes, he pined for her.
He let out a defeated breath. It didn’t matter, and he wouldn’t tell Cecil or Myrtle how far he’d fallen. That was for him to know, and no one else. “It’s not a big deal.”
“If you say so,” Cecil said, raising one disbelieving brow.
Jonah paused before heading down the hall toward his bedroom. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s all . . . temporary.” The nature of his life would never include another person on any permanent basis, especially a vibrant woman like Clara.
He enjoyed the freedom of cruising the streets on the motorcycle, but he wasn’t sure if the risk was worthwhile. At some point he might get pulled over. He wouldn’t have a license . . . he’d have to reveal his face to the officer.
A small shudder went down his spine. Hell, he had risked a run-in with the law earlier that night when he’d confronted the goon in the alley.
No, this was all just a temporary diversion from his lackluster life. But it’d be over soon. He’d end it himself. Nothing was worth exposing himself to the world.
He turned toward the old man, who he suddenly realized had far more white in his hair than black, far more wrinkles creasing his brown skin.
Myrtle and Cecil were getting older by the day. They wouldn’t be there forever and the sudden knowledge brought forth a burst of fear. He sighed. “I’ll let you know if I go out again, Cecil. Tell Myrtle not to worry.”
He didn’t wait for the old man to answer, though he swore he heard Cecil mutter, “Yup, definitely pining,” under his breath, a hint of worry in his tone.
Jonah walked quickly to his room and shut the door behind him. His phone dinged again, and he pulled it from his pocket.
Clara: Jonah, are you there?
Jonah: Yeah, sorry. I’m home now. Are you still at the ball?
Clara: No. I called a ride and left right after you.
A feeling of relief drifted through Jonah. If she’d arrived with the dancer, he hadn’t driven her home.
Clara: Jonah, do you want to talk on the phone for a few minutes? It’s okay if you don’t.
Jonah hesitated. She always gave him an out, and he didn’t think he deserved such kindness all the time. Before he could respond, another text came through.
Clara: I just sort of miss your voice.
God, this girl. He wanted to hear Clara’s voice too. To close his eyes and talk to her the way they’d spoken so often as she sat on the other side of his wall. He flopped down on his bed, putting one arm behind his head as he dialed her number.
“Hey,” she said, her voice sleepy. His heart rate accelerated at the sweet sound of her right against his ear.
“Hey,” he answered, picturing her as she might be, lying on her bed in whatever she wore to sleep in . . . a tank top maybe, something sheer and soft. His body tightened at the image his mind conjured, and he willed his blood to cool.
“This feels familiar but different. If I close my eyes it’s like you’re still just on the other side of the wall, but a different wall, one that’s just a paper-thin sliver of rock,” Clara said. Jonah smiled at the image but when she spoke again, her voice was serious, “Will there always be something between us, Jonah?”
“Yes,” he said, and even he could hear the regret in his tone. There would always be something between them. If not a wall, then a phone, a mask, the shadows he hid amongst.
She paused and he sensed that she was trying to figure out how to answer, whether to accept or convince. “I hope someday you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t, Clara.”
“But you said you’d never come out from behind the wall either and you did that.” There was a note of satisfaction in her voice.
Jonah smiled. “You got me there. You’re a very convincing person. You should have been a lawyer.”
Clara laughed. “Oh God, no, I’d be awful. My jaw locks up when I speak publicly. It’s a scary sight.”
Jonah chuckled, but her words caused a frisson of shame to roll down his spine. She had no idea what scary was. If she saw the frozen, scarred side of his face, she’d re-evaluate the usage of that word.
“Jonah . . . I hope you don’t mind me asking but . . . how is it that you don’t have to work? I mean, I know that’s personal and I don’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. It’s not that personal.” Especially considering everything he’d already shared with her. “The truth is, I’m rich.”
He rolled over, looking out the window at the dark lace of the trees outside. “The Chamberlain family has always been well-off, but my father made a lot of money, and then he invested it well and when he died, he left it all to me and Justin. When Justin died, I got his share.”
“Oh,” she whispered, seeming to understand that Jonah took no satisfaction in his wealth. It had come at far too great a price.
“I’d give it all back if I could,” he said softly. “Every cent.”
“I know,” Clara said, and he truly felt like she did.
“But, in all fairness, I’m grateful for it too because it’s allowed me to live the life of solace that I want.” Solace. That felt like the wrong choice of words—Jonah had felt little solace—but he didn’t correct himself and neither did she.
“Why Windisle? Why choose a place you yourself have described as run-down and in need of repair?”
“At first, it was the only place I could think to go to get away from all the reporters, the cameras, just . . . people in general. The Chamberlain family abandoned Windisle a long time ago. Everyone knew it was empty. Cecil and Myrtle were the caretakers before I arrived, but at that time, they didn’t live on the property. After that . . . I don’t know. I guess it became easy to hide here.”