All the Secrets We Keep (Quarry Book 2) Read online

  “Shit, I thought they weren’t leaving until tomorrow. So you’re alone? That’s no good.” He was already turning off the lights, locking the doors, and heading out to his car. “I’m on my way.”

  “You don’t have to do that—”

  “I’m on my way,” Ilya said. “Don’t argue.”

  He disconnected before she could protest more. He stopped at the pharmacy to pick up medicine, as many different kinds as he could find to cover all possible symptoms, along with a couple of boxes of tissues. He tossed a few gossip magazines into the basket in case she got bored with daytime TV. He stopped at the grocery store for chicken-noodle soup, juice, ginger ale, and saltines in case it turned into that sort of flu. He parked in Alicia’s driveway and, laden with bags, went to the front door.

  “Ilya! Hi!”

  “Hey, Dina,” he said as he put down some of the bags so he could test the front door. “How’s it going?”

  “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Shit, she was actually coming over. Ilya tugged the front door, but it was locked. There was a spare key in the flowerpot on the railing, but he didn’t have time to get it before Dina had crossed the lawn to the first porch stair.

  “How’s it going?” he asked again, lamely.

  “I’ve missed you,” Dina whispered with a shifty glance toward her own house. “Maybe you could come over later?”

  “Oh, I’m busy later . . .”

  “Sometime, then.” She eyed him as he rang the doorbell. “You should come over sometime.”

  He heard the shuffle of something on the other side of the door. The click of the lock. He picked up the bags again and gave Dina a firm smile.

  “I don’t think so, Dina.”

  She sneered and crossed her arms. “Alicia isn’t home, you know. She went on a trip with your brother. They’re a couple now.”

  “I know that,” Ilya said as the front door opened. “You think I don’t? Jesus, Dina. Enough. Okay?”

  Theresa, looking like death warmed over, peered through the crack in the door. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You’re here for her now?” Dina asked. “I get it. Boy, do I get it. You know what, Ilya, screw you!”

  He pushed the door open wider, bags in hand. Theresa had already turned to shuffle away from him, toward the den. Ilya looked out the door, but Dina had already left, thank God. That was a mess he didn’t want to deal with now. Or ever. He closed the front door and took the bags to the kitchen table, then went to the den.

  “Hey. How are you feeling?”

  Theresa had gone back to the couch, her head on a pillow in a brightly patterned case, and a bunch of knitted afghans on top of her. She made a small noise in answer, kind of like a whimper, half a moan. She put her hands to her head and squeezed.

  “Hey,” he said softly, as he sat on the edge of the couch near her knees. He put a hand on her, then withdrew it quickly. “Shit, babe, you’re burning up.”

  She let out a small sigh and burrowed deeper into the pillow. “I took some medicine a few hours ago.”

  “You need more. I’ll get it for you.” In the kitchen, Ilya set some soup on the stove to heat, then shook a few acetaminophen tablets into his palm and took them to her with a glass of water. Her eyes were closed when he came back, her breathing raspy. She was shivering even under the pile of blankets. “Hey. Theresa? Here.”

  She sat up with a groan, her eyes ringed with dark circles and her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks glistening with sweat. She took the glass and the pills from him but choked a little when she swallowed them. She clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a gag, then shook her head with a grimace before sinking back onto the pillow.

  Ilya rubbed her shoulder. “That’s going to help. I’ve got some soup heating up for you.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Well, when you are. Do you want something else? Something to drink?” Slowly, he let his hand move over her. She was so hot, almost scalding him even through the layers of clothing. He should get her a thermometer, he thought.

  “No. I want to go up to my bed, though. The couch is lumpy.” She sat up with one of those whimper moans and struggled with the blankets.

  He was startled to see tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Let me help you. Hey, shhh.”

  “I haven’t felt this terrible in . . . ever,” she said with a small gasp.

  “Let me help you,” Ilya repeated, and slipped an arm beneath hers to help her up. She sagged against him, and without thinking, he bent to lift her. Her head nestled perfectly against his shoulder, and he thought for sure she’d protest, but she only made another small sound as he carried her toward the stairs.

  By the time he got her to the bed, his arms were aching and legs trembling, but he managed to settle her carefully onto it. He helped her get beneath the blankets but realized the pillow she’d been using on the couch was meant for the bed. He ran downstairs, turned off the soup, grabbed the pillow, and went back up.

  She looked like she was sleeping, at least until he carefully tried to lift her head to place the pillow beneath it. Then she opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused. She put her hand on his wrist. She barely squeezed him before letting go.

  He stroked her hair off her forehead. “What can I do for you?”

  “Let me sleep.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Still worried, he felt her forehead. He couldn’t tell if it was cooler or not. “Are you sure I can’t bring you something to drink?”

  “Water.” But when he tried to leave, she grabbed his wrist again. “Wait. Just sit with me for a minute.”

  “Okay.” He did, watching while her eyelids drooped and her face went slack. The rise and fall of her shoulders slowed as her breathing did, too. He continued to watch her as she slept, making sure she looked comfortable, and then he went downstairs to put away the groceries he’d bought.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Theresa awoke in darkness, noticing for the first time that her head, which had felt like it was going to explode for the past two days, actually only ached a little bit. Her body still creaked with pain, but it felt more like she’d been run over by a bicycle than a tractor trailer. She felt sticky and gross from sweat, her pajamas clinging to her. For the first time in three days, she thought she might actually be able to take a shower.

  It was a mistake. She’d eaten next to nothing since coming down with this, and as soon as she leaned over to turn on the hot water, the world spun as dizziness overwhelmed her. She sank onto her knees next to the claw-foot tub, knowing there was no way she was going to be able to get herself in and out of it without falling.

  Theresa had not cried—really cried—for a long time. There’d been a few bouts of tears when things ended with Wayne—mostly of the self-castigating sort—because she’d allowed herself to get close enough to him for anything he ever did to bother her even for a second. Now, though, she couldn’t stop herself from letting a frustrated sob slip out of her throat as scalding tears stung her eyes. She was on a bathroom floor clutching a bathtub while steam filled the air, her pajamas only half-off, and she wasn’t going to be able to get herself under the water, which was the only place she wanted to be in that moment.

  When the bathroom door creaked open, she managed to raise her head from its place on the tub’s curved lip. So Ilya taking care of her had not been a fever dream, though it had seemed something like one.

  “Theresa, shit, did you fall?” He knelt next to her, taking her hand.

  She was aware that she was barely dressed but couldn’t bring herself to care. It wasn’t like he’d never seen her nearly naked. “No, I wanted to take a shower. I feel so gross, but I got dizzy.”

  “You should’ve called for me,” he said. “C’mon, let me help you get back to bed.”

  “No,” she muttered. More tears. She hated that she was crying but couldn’t stop herself. “I want a shower . . . please . . . I just feel so sweaty and awful, Ilya.”