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Camille’s hands shake as she aims the gun at Duncan. She can barely see him through the tears in her eyes.
“Close your mind,” he says softly. “Pull the trigger. It’s okay.”
Camille chokes back another sob as her finger squeezes the trigger. The sound of a gunshot rings out in the cabin, and Camille drops the weapon, falling to her knees at the foot of the bed, her body wracked with sobs.
Duncan looks up from the smoking hole in the floorboards, only a few inches away from his boot. He lets out a heavy exhale and more tears fall down his cheek. He turns his head, finding Camille crying into the comforter.
Several tense minutes pass as Duncan watches Camille cry, shocked by every moment he remains alive. He wonders if he’s dead and this is his dying brain’s imagination. He wonders if he’s dreaming.
Finally, Camille goes quiet, and Duncan slowly leans down to pick up the gun. He sees Camille’s shoulders tense as he shifts his weight, the spring in the mattress squeaking with the movement. He puts the gun in his lap and stares down at it.
“Do you want me to do it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Camille lifts her head, staring at Duncan with an unreadable expression.
Duncan clears his throat. “Do you want me to go?”
Camille’s bottom lip trembles and fresh tears spring into her eyes. She moves to sit next to Duncan on the bed, her leg brushing against his.
Duncan freezes at the touch and swallows hard. “What—”
Camille leans her head on Duncan’s shoulder and he shuts his mouth. “I hate you,” she says, voice hollow and uneven from crying. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”
“I know. I’m sor—”
“Stop,” she pleads. “Stop talking. Please.” Her voice cracks on the last word and her body starts to shake again. “I just want them back. But you’re all I’ve got now. Do you understand?”
This time, he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand Camille at all.
“No.”
Camille sniffles. “You sound like him. I don’t remember his voice well anymore, but it was deep, like yours. You even smell like cigarettes,” she says wistfully. “No aftershave, but you don’t look like you’d own any.”
“Camille…”
“He called me Millie. Whenever I was sad, he’d hold me, and he’d tell me everything would be okay. He’d always promise to fix it, whatever it was, and then he’d just sit there and hold me until I stopped crying. When it was all over, he’d wipe my face with his sleeve and kiss my forehead. You took that from me. You took him from me. You—” Camille’s voice cracks again and new tears begin streaming down her cheeks. She buries her face in Duncan’s shoulder.
Duncan doesn’t move. He hardly breathes. His fingers twitch against his thighs.
“Tell me it’s going to be okay. Promise me you’ll fix it,” Camille says.
“Camille,” Duncan says again, drawing yet another sob from the woman.
“Please,” she begs, clasped hands smacking down against her thigh. “Please just tell me it’s going to be okay.”
Duncan’s hand reaches out to wrap around Camille’s hands, holding them still, as if he’s afraid she might hurt herself. With his other hand, he takes the gun from his lap, setting it aside before wrapping his arm around Camille, holding her tight.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers. “I’m going to fix it. I promise, Millie. I’m going to fix it.”
Camille sobs openly once more, yanking her hands out of Duncan’s grip so she can wrap her arms around his neck. She tucks her head under his chin and cries into his shirt, ignoring the heavy scent of blood.
Duncan’s now free hand moves to the back of Camille’s head, cradling it tenderly. His thumb rubs against her hair, and he thinks about how easily he could snap her neck. She told him she prays every night that she died that day. He wonders if killing her now would finally put her at peace. He wonders if that’s why she’s being so vulnerable. It doesn’t matter, though. He knows he can’t kill her. Even if she asked him to, he wouldn’t be able to do it.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing circles in her back with his other hand. “It’s all going to be okay. I’m right here.” He squeezes her tightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Camille’s nails dig into the back of Duncan’s sweater. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
When Camille finally stills, she pulls away, looking up at Duncan with shining eyes. She blinks, but no new tears fall. Duncan’s hand slides from the back of her head to just under her jaw, keeping her face tilted upward as his other hand leaves her back. He uses the sleeve of his sweater to dry her face. She scrunches her nose as the scratchy material drags over her skin, but she doesn’t try to move away. Duncan hesitates before leaning in to place a tentative kiss on Camille’s forehead. She shakes a bit again, and Duncan jerks away like he’s been burned. He looks at Camille, expecting more tears and discomfort, but she’s smiling. Slowly it dawns on him that she was shaking from laughter, not sobs.
Upon seeing the confused look on Duncan’s face, she says, “It tickled.”
Duncan snorts and gives her a small smile, then presses another kiss to her forehead.
She chuckles again. “Thank you,” she says softly. She begins to move away. “I’m gonna go clean up,” she tells him, heading for the bathroom.
Duncan suddenly feels cold without her presence.
When Camille returns, she sits in a chair halfway across the room. She looks better now, her eyes less red and puffy, and her hands are no longer shaking. She asks Duncan if he knows who wanted her father dead, but he doesn’t. She then asks if they can find out.
“I’ll try,” he says.
Camille gives him a slight nod, and he stands, heading for the front door. After a minute, she follows, sliding her jacket on as she steps out onto the front porch. She takes her place next to him and watches as he takes a drag from his cigarette. He turns to look at her for a moment, then holds the cigarette out for her to take. Camille considers it for a moment, then takes it. She holds it in one hand, her other hand resting next to Duncan’s on the porch railing.
“He used to hold my hand when it was cold outside and I’d forgotten my gloves,” she says, staring out across the lake. She looks at Duncan’s cabin, a large grey thing that she’d spent so many nights watching, waiting for the shadow that took her family away to come creeping out after her.
The thoughts fade away as warmth surrounds her hand. Camille leans her head on Duncan’s shoulder and blows smoke out of her nose, then passes the cigarette back to Duncan.
“You never struck me as a smoker,” Duncan says, surprised when Camille doesn’t cough after her initial inhale.
“Tried everything to numb the pain,” she replies.
Duncan’s hand squeezes hers. He opens his mouth to apologize again, feeling like a broken record more than anything else.
“I want you to find them,” she says. “Whoever they are, I want you to hunt them down for me. I want you to bring them to me, and I want you to give me a gun so I can end it myself.”
Duncan nods. “I will.”
“Good,” Camille says, taking the cigarette back. She turns her hand over, pressing her palm to Duncan’s and lacing their fingers together. “Thank you. It’s the least you can do, I think, but thank you.” She brings the cigarette to her lips. “Will you leave when it’s all over?” she asks, watching frosted smoke drift from her mouth.
“No,” Duncan replies. “I made you a promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
Camille smiles softly. “Good,” she repeats. “I don’t want you to go anymore.”
Duncan isn’t sure if it’s salvation that Camille is offering him, but it feels like it. It feels like the forgiveness he’s been chasing for twenty years, and he’ll do whatever it takes to earn it.
“Winter coffee?” she asks, straightening up and returning the cigarette to Duncan. “I’m getting cold.”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
They go back inside, hands still clasped.
Duncan knows one thing with absolute certainty: he’s never letting go of Camille again.