Page 70 of This Woman Forever

I have enough deaths on my conscience.

It takes me a moment to realize it’s Sarah sitting on the wall outside the hospital. She looks small, pale, and weak. Drained. I’ve never seen her be anything but perfectly made up, tits out, shoulders back. A salacious smirk stretching her red painted lips. Today, she’s the polar opposite—her blond hair scraped back, her chest covered with a fleece hoodie, her shoulders hunched in. The sleeves are pulled over her hands. Hiding the bandages.

I get out and walk to the wall, stopping nearly toe to toe with her. Her head is low, and I can see the effort it takes for her to lift it and look up at me. This is not the Sarah I’ve known for years. She didn’t even look this pitiful when she lost her daughter. I wince away that thought, feeling more guilt.

She blinks, her blue eyes glassy. “You didn’t have to come,” she says quietly.

I press my lips together and crouch to relieve her of the strain to look up at me. Just fucking look at her. “I did,” I reply softly, knowing I could be making things so much worse, but I’m unable to stop myself from caring. Her bare, dry lips tremble as she tries to hold back her tears. I’m at a fucking loss, unsure how to navigate these murky waters. I know I won’t be increasing my chances of making amends with Ava if I help Sarah try to get back on her feet, but I don’t think I can turn my back on her. Not even after everything she’s done. I didn’t want this. I never knew it might come to this.

I reach for her arm, pushing back the material of her sleeve to reveal a bandage. “Sarah,” I breathe in despair. “What have you done to yourself?” A tear drops onto her cuff and soaks into the material.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice croaky, as she pulls down the sleeves again, holding them in place with her fingers, pinning them to her palms.

“Come on,” I say, cupping her elbow and taking her weight, helping her stand, feeling her exhaustion. “Let’s get you home.”

I walk her slowly to my car and get her in, putting her bag in the boot. The drive is long and silent, and it’s only when I pull up outside her flat that I realize I’ve never been inside. Feeling inevitably on edge, I get her out and walk her slowly up the steps, letting us in with the keys John gave me.

I’m sure I can thank John that the blood and pills have been cleaned up. But it’s desolate. It’s the only word that comes to mind when I get her inside, settling her on the couch. “I’ll make tea.” I go to the kitchen and search for mugs. I find one in a cupboard with one plate, one bowl, and one glass. “Jesus,” I whisper, getting it down and going to the drawers, pulling one open after the other. All empty except for the bare minimum utensils and a few knives and forks. I lift the kettle off the stand. Empty. I go to the fridge and pull it open. There’s a pint of milk. Out of date.

I close the door and look around the room. It’s a shell. Soulless and cold. This is simply an address.

Breathing out, I rub my hands down my cheeks. This was like my apartment, my life before Ava. I knew Sarah’s life was me and The Manor, but this has knocked me.

I had sex and drink.

Sarah had her whip and The Manor.

Now I have purpose, and Sarah has nothing.

Because I took it away.

I give up on the tea and get the glass, filling it with water and taking it to her. I sit on the chair opposite, unable to stop myself from taking in this room too. Bare minimal furniture. No photos on the walls, nothing lying around—no books, blankets, or cushions. It screams loneliness.

Solitude.

I have never, not once, thought about Sarah’s life before she met Carmichael. Her family. Did she have any? Does she now? I quickly pull my wondering into line. I can’t go there. Especially not now.

“How’s Ava?” she asks.

“Let’s not talk about Ava,” I say, feeling I need to keep her separate to this.

She nods, looking down into the glass. “She looked beautiful,” she says. “On your wedding day.”

I can’t look at her, the shell of a woman before me, taking me into unknown territory. “Sarah, I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

“You must miss me,” she says, shocking me as I glance at her, full of caution. “I mean around The Manor,” she goes on. “Doing things. Working.”

I laugh, uncomfortable. “Yeah, kind of. I needed to pay for something earlier. Couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Well, because your brain stores all the information I needed to log into my accounts.”

She quickly grabs her phone and swipes, handing it to me. “Here.”

I look down at the screen and see the banking app open. She still has access to my accounts? Of course she does. Fucking hell, how stupid can I be? She could have cleaned me out and disappeared. I’m not sure if I should be more uncomfortable that she hasn’t. That’s she’s still here. After trying to take her own life. I eye her warily and take her mobile. I still have no idea what I’m looking at or what information to input. I shake my head and hand it back, slightly embarrassed.

“You could send me the details and I’ll make sure the money is sent.”