“I know you cannot believe that.”
Like threads unraveling from a spool of yarn, Mrs. Musgrave wobbled and framed her cheeks with both hands. “Do it, Abraham.”
“I won’t let you—”
“I said do it!”
The brute leveled his gun on Uncle the same time Meg sprinted. Her body shielded him. Just as Tom had done for her. Just as he would have done again and again and again.
If she wanted to die with the strength of anyone, it was him.
And the girl he’d loved.
Meg of then, who had survived the alley, who had smiled anyway, who had been brave enough to take off her shoes and run. Who had trusted herself.
Tears rushed her throat, and her trembling fingers curled into fists. “Tom told me stories. The things we did together. About Lenox and that time we brought you home an injured puffin. How it was shivering, so we all sat in front of your kitchen hearth while you wrapped its wing.”
“You wrapped it too, dear. You were so gentle. There was so much good in you.”
“I want to do good.”
“I know.”
“Why won’t you let me? How could you do this to us?” Her throat burned. “To Tom?”
“It may surprise you to know that Tom was not the only one I loved.” Mrs. Musgrave’s head angled, her voice motherly, a little cooing. Sadness moistened her words. “I loved you too, my dear.”
Abraham raised the gun.
“I’m sorry, little Meg.”
No.
“You were so sweet and kind in those younger years. I watched you grow. I wish your uncle would have stopped, just once, to realize he was taking your life too.”
Dead silence charged the room.
With tears trekking her cheeks, Mrs. Musgrave gave the faintest nod to Abraham—but he never fired the gun, because the drawing room doors busted open.
Distant shouts poured in.
Motion.
A sea of unfamiliar faces, grunts, dizziness, the ceiling above her face. Then Meade, with his strong and coal-fuming clothes, lifting her head off the floor. “You’re alive.”
A cry nearly broke loose from within her.
Because Tom wasn’t.
CHAPTER 26
“Let me go.” Air moved underneath Tom, and stained-glass colors blurred across his swaying vision. He must have kicked or thrashed, because the arms supporting him clutched tighter.
“Do that again, and you’ll be face down on the floor.”
Meade.Some of the terror shifted. A gruff order, a door whining, then a bed creaked beneath Tom’s weight. He twisted in pain. Almost cursed.
Meade spat one instead. “Lie still, or you’ll be in the dead house.”
