Chapter 6: Lisbon, Dated

Declan's POV

The room over the bait shop smelled of diesel and old rope, and I had not slept in it at all.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my duffel bag open on the floor and every paper I owned spread across the quilt.

Forty letters.

I had kept a copy of each one, because I'd been afraid that if I stopped writing to her I would forget what I wanted to say.

I hadn't forgotten.

The first one was two pages and started with "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

The last one was a single line.

"I'm still here."

I put them in a pile on the left side of the bed and turned to the other pile.

The Lisbon hospital had printed it for me in three languages.

Admitted Tuesday, eleven forty at night. Surgery at one in the morning. Fever from Wednesday. Intensive care until Saturday.

A stamp on every page.

I'd carried that folder for five years, and I'd never shown it to anyone, because I'd never had a reason to prove I was sick.

I had a reason now.

It was in a bakery a hundred yards away, with a ring on a string around her neck.

I lay back on the quilt and looked at the ceiling.

She had worn that ring under her shirt for six years.

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