His stomach sank deeper and deeper toward his boots as he trudged back toward the tent, trying to find the words to explain to Marin what had happened. His heart sat like a lead weight in his chest, pressing on his lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe.
“How do I tell her?” he whispered to the misting rain. He stopped halfway between the forge and the tents, just standing there, breath ragged, chest tight.
It’s my fault. I should have made him stay with me instead of letting him run off.
“Thom, wait.”
“For what?” He glanced over his shoulder toward Cameron, feeling a slight pang as he watched his friend limp toward him. “Waiting isn’t going to make this any easier.”
“No,” Cameron agreed. “But you won’t be alone that way, right?”
Thom exhaled and shivered. He felt cold, chilled to the bone. Part of it was probably from the damp, but he knew it wasn’t entirely the weather.
“Right,” he murmured. He reached over and grasped Cameron’s shoulder, managing a weak smile even though he felt sick to his stomach. “Thanks, Cam.”
“Yeah. Just remember this when I need backup when I go to tell Neve something that may or may not be traumatic and upsetting.” He threw an arm around Thom’s shoulders.
“I’ll try not to forget,” Thom said, swallowing bile. He took another deep breath. “I don’t even know where she is.”
“Then we look,” Cameron said quietly. “You’re the one who marched out here to look for her.”
“I know.” Thom sighed. “I know, I know.”
He turned toward the ravine, toward the bridge, and started walking. If had to guess, he’d think that Phelan and Marin had probably headed in that direction.
Each step was an effort, like his boots were made of concrete.
This was the worst sort of news he could be carrying to his wife.
At least he’s not dead.
A little voice whispered in the back of his head: Not that you know of.
