The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (15 page)

Meanwhile, Mr. Hayes is someone who can be manipulated. Everything falls into place as I recall the last time I was at Icarus’s estate. Jonathan had attacked me in an attempt to infuriate Mr. Hayes. Mr. Hayes may appear to be in control, but it’s truly Jonathan who is the master—the puppeteer manipulating the Elite member. And if it turns out I was the Phoenix’s first victim, then Jonathan would be a plausible suspect since he was one of my clients.

My eagerness to share my discoveries with the detective has me running up the stairs. A grin breaks across my face, and I lift my hand to knock on Keenan’s bedroom door. But my excitement immediately shatters the moment I remember what has occurred in the past few days. Though Keenan is the detective on the case, he’s currently not in the right state of mind. His mind has been traumatized with the recovery of lost memories, leaving him tangled and shackled with grief. Who knows how long it takes to recuperate after such a harrowing event? Certainly not me.

A
s the next
few days pass by, I realize my question had been wrong. It’s not a matter of how long it takes someone to recover from a traumatizing event. Rather, the question I should have asked was how long it takes for someone to destroy themselves. And am I strong enough to watch them unravel? It only took me two days to answer those questions. The moment Keenan woke up from the slumber Evan had put him in he immediately sought the company of his two favourite vices. He’s been steadily intoxicated ever since.

Mrs. Whitmore has tried several times to get him to consume something other than liquor and smoke. When all of her attempts failed, I stepped in and used persuasion. A moment later Keenan vomited the contents, and I never forced him to eat again. That night I cried and answered the second part of the question. Turns out, I’m not strong enough. I’ve never taken care of anyone, and after two days with Keenan, I doubt I’m capable of it. It requires patience, tenderness, and commitment—qualities I’ve never really possessed. Yet despite my inadequacies, I force myself to wake every morning and help Keenan in any way possible. Because there’s one thing I’ve never lacked, and that’s determination. My mind has been set on helping him, and I
will
see it through—even if I lose a piece of myself every time I look into those apathetic green eyes.

I refuse to believe he is gone, and I take comfort knowing he has yet to visit the opium den. Surely it means he hasn’t completely lost his way.

Several more days pass by with the usual routine of finding him drunk until a disturbance wakes me up one night. I immediately bolt out of my bed and rush into the hallway. My feet automatically start walking toward Keenan’s bedroom, but then a loud crash draws my attention downstairs. When I hear Keenan growl in frustration, I abandon my original path and head down to the main floor. Mrs. Whitmore is standing in her housecoat before the detective’s study with a look of horror on her face, and this time when her eyes flicker to me, she doesn’t remark on the fact I’m only in my chemise. In the past week and a half, I’ve earned her respect.

I stand beside her at the entrance and peer inside the study, and my own eyes widen in shock as they register the scene before me. Keenan’s desk has been carelessly rummaged through and lies on its side on the floor. The man himself stands before the bookcases, pulling books at random and flipping through them. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he growls in frustration and throws the book onto the floor behind him. He looks like a madman possessed, and I know he’s been drinking.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” I say softly. “Please phone the dream house and have them send a dream weaver immediately.”

The woman leaves my side to carry out my request, leaving me alone with the man inside the office. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt he wears underneath, and his desperation permeates the room. He runs his hand through his disheveled hair before picking another book off the shelf, his wild, red-rimmed gaze scanning the title. When it proves to be the wrong one, he throws it with vehemence. I startle in surprise when he proceeds in removing the entire row with one violent sweep of his arm, the books crashing to the floor with reckless abandonment.

“Where is it?” he snarls.

I know exactly what he’s looking for without having to enter his mind. And even though he isn’t aware of my presence, I rush into the room and head toward the farthest bookshelf. Perhaps it’s not the best time to interfere, but I can’t bear to just stand there and watch him destroy his office. Especially if I know what he’s searching for and where to find it. He doesn’t even notice me as I walk past him and kneel on the floor, pulling out the romance novel on the bottom shelf. I flip through the book until I find Celeste’s photo, and then stand to face the detective.

He swears and continues throwing books onto the floor.

“Keenan, stop,” I plead. “Please, stop. It’s here. Look.”

I hold out the photo, and his gaze flickers away from the bookshelf. The corners of his eyes tighten in pain as he looks down at Celeste’s photograph, and his anguish wraps around my neck threateningly. I try to swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to breathe through the dense air. When he reaches out to grab the photo, his hand trembles and his breathing quickens. I wrap my arms around myself and lower my head, unable to maintain his gaze.

“How did you know what I was looking for?” he demands, the hostility in his voice making me raise my head.

My eyes widen, and it’s one of the few times I’m speechless. “I…”

He grabs hold of my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. “
How
did you know where to find this?”

He’s yelling now, and I’m at a complete loss. I’ve only ever heard him raise his voice a couple of times before this. His rage surprises me now just as it did then, but I couldn’t just let him continue to ruin his office. I pull back in an attempt to free myself, and his grip tightens painfully.

“Answer me!” He yanks on my arm roughly, and I nearly collide into his chest.

“Keenan, you’re hurting me.”

I meant to say those words with force, yet my wavering voice sounds more like a plea. The scent of smoke and liquor surrounds him, making my head spin with its potency, and I cringe away from him. His fingers no longer feel as if they’re pressing into flesh, but are now dangerously close to the bones. I look up into his eyes, the ones that captivated me the first day we met and see someone I barely recognize. The dignified and intelligent man who sat across from me that day has fled to the far recesses of his mind, unable to cope with the sudden burden of sorrow. And the tender, passionate man who set me on fire with his touch? Gone—buried beneath the dissonance of the gears in his mind.

Brushing aside his mental barriers, I slip into the clock. Chaos surrounds me, various objects dispersed onto the floor in neglect, and the gears turn fervently, steam rolling over my skin. In his inebriated state, he doesn’t recognize me. I’m not Moira; I’m an intruder. And he has no intention of releasing me.

I panic and use the only advantage I have over him—persuasion.

“
Release me, now.
”

At the same time he frees me from his grasp, his expression transforms from aggravation to absolutely murderous. I have now used persuasion on him twice, and I had promised I never would. But when I made that promise, I never expected him to starve himself or use physical force on me. My arm throbs where he grabbed me, and I tentatively touch it. There’s no question I will have a bruise soon.

Keenan inhales deeply as if he is trying to reign in his temper, and his cheeks redden with the effort. When he takes a step toward me, I wonder if it means he has failed. Instead of persuasion, I rush into the clock and plant a hand firmly onto one of the gears. I need him to recognize me—to remember I’m not an intruder or a threat. I beckon a bittersweet memory forward and let it play onto his mind. My body aches with the memory of his touch as I replay the morning we had sex, and Keenan pauses and lifts his hands to his head. His eyes close, and a groan escapes him.

Please don’t hurt me…

Keenan’s eyes snap open, and when they fall on me, I see a familiar clarity in them. “Moira.”

As much as I’m desperate to approach him, I remain where I’m standing. His rage has vanished, replaced instead with guilt, and he watches me with hesitancy. My hand twitches with the urge to run my fingertips over the growth of stubble along his jaw, but I squelch the desire by tightening my hand into a fist. I’m afraid to touch him—of what emotions might be released by a single caress.

Mrs. Whitmore appears at the door. “Mr. Edwards, a dream weaver is here to help you. Please, sir. It’s late, and you need your rest.”

She approaches and helps him out of the office, leaving me alone amongst the chaos. After a moment, I pick up a book off the floor and begin replacing the ones that were discarded. I try to return them to their previous order, or at least to how I imagine they were. I’m nearly finished when someone appears at the entrance and clears their throat. It’s Evan, and his gaze slowly assesses my indecent state of dress. The thin fabric of my chemise barely covers my body, and when his eyes pause in their examination, I know the dark circles around my nipples are visible.

He lifts his gaze back to my face and quickly stifles his desire. “Need help?”

“No.”

Instead of walking away, he bends down to pick up a hardback and hands it to me. After we’re finished replacing all of the books, Evan helps me lift Keenan’s desk. It’s heavier than I had thought, but we manage to return it to its upright position. Everything within the drawers is now in disarray, but at least nothing had fallen out, which is more than I can say for the contents that were on the desk. Once the office is no longer in shambles, I smile gratefully at Evan and thank him. He shrugs as if anyone would have offered a hand, but his lips curve upwards.

“I can be of further use if you’d like,” he says.

I raise a sceptical brow. “Like what?”

“Sleep, of course.”

“No, thanks. I don’t have any money to pay for your service.” The look he gives me next says he’d accept any other form of payment as well, and I scowl. “That’s not happening either.”

He chuckles, and his gaze flickers lower. “A shame, but I know it’s the detective you want. I was actually thinking I’d do it for free.”

“And
why
would you do that?”

“Out of the goodness of my heart?” His voice sounds uncertain as if he doesn’t know the answer himself.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Try again.”

“Because I like you.” His voice is more confident than before, but it isn’t the whole truth.

My eyes narrow as I look up at him. “Closer.”

“And you look so sad.”

A sigh escapes me as the truth settles within me unpleasantly. He would pull me into a dreamscape out of pity, expecting nothing in return. It would be a friend helping out a friend. As tempting as it sounds, I don’t exactly trust him. The suspicion is instinctual—born from a life of servitude and abuse. Sure, I’ve invited him into my mind twice now, but letting him weave me into a dream would mean giving him absolute control over my mind. And I don’t think I’m capable of that amount of submission or trust.

“I don’t think I can,” I say.

He nods solemnly. “I understand. People like us can’t afford to trust so easily. Our bodies might belong to someone else, but we must remember to protect our hearts.”

He surprises me by planting a soft kiss on my cheek in the exact spot where the horizontal ‘s’ with two dots scars my skin. The moment he’s gone, I wonder if maybe I should have accepted his offer. Having the assurance of a good night’s rest would have been nice, especially after a day like today. Hopefully I’m capable of falling back asleep after being woken up. And hopefully I don’t dream of either Scott or Celeste.

S
everal more days pass by
, and with each day, Keenan becomes more lucid. He doesn’t drink or smoke as much as the first week, but he still secludes himself either in his bedroom or study. Mrs. Whitmore and I finally get him to eat something more substantial than the tidbits he allowed himself before. I help in any way possible, while also keeping my distance—always watchful for any sign of the intelligent man I’ve grown fond of. The last thing I want is to impose myself on him, making demands I hardly have any right to make.

The Chief visits one day, but Keenan refuses to see him. So, instead, the Chief satisfies his curiosity by speaking with me. He’s worried about the detective, but I assure him everything is fine—that Keenan just needs time to heal.

He looks up at me, his expression thoughtful. “I hope you’re right, Moira. He’s my friend. Not only do I hate seeing him like this, but I also need him at the police station.”

“I don’t like it either, but there’s not much to be done. He’ll heal when he’s ready. Besides, there hasn’t been any progress in the Phoenix case for a while now.”

I don’t tell him that I am possibly the Phoenix’s first victim. Not yet. I need time to search through my memories first before I give them and myself hope.

The Chief nods distractedly. “You’re right.” He stands and places his bowler hat on his balding head. “Let me know if anything changes, or if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Evan continues to visit every night to pull Keenan into a dreamscape, and then visit me afterwards. I enjoy and appreciate his company, even as I yearn for another’s. For the past two weeks, Keenan and I have barely spoken to one another and my loneliness presses upon me. Thankfully, my mind is kept preoccupied with helping Mrs. Whitmore. And in that way I’m never truly alone, except for when I go to sleep.

Today, however, Evan returns downstairs only after a minute of speaking with Keenan. I immediately go to him. “Is there something wrong?”

Evan shakes his head, regarding me with sympathy. “Everything is fine, Moira. He simply said he doesn’t require my services anymore, and then he asked for you. Are
you
alright?”

I stifle the urge to bolt up the stairs, and then calmly thank the other empath. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Evan.”

I give him a quick kiss on the cheek before the constable who accompanied him escorts him back outside. Once the door has closed behind them, my eagerness escalates as I climb the stairs. Keenan’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, yet I knock anyway. My heart gallops deafeningly in my ears, and I briefly wonder why I’m so nervous before I hear him beckoning me to enter. It’s been days since the last time I heard his pleasant voice, and I didn’t realize how much I missed the soft cadence until now.

When I open the door farther, my eyes immediately dart to the figure sitting on the edge of the bed. His stubble has grown, altering his appearance slightly. If I thought he looked haggard before, I’m tempted to say I was wrong. Keenan looks lost, defeated, and worn. But then his eyes flicker up to greet me, and I see a glint of light in their shadowed depths. He stands, and I freeze at the door.