Page 146 of Hell Breaks Loose

“I’ve worked for Marco for about ten years now. I became Cynthia’s bodyguard a year after you left.”

Processing. Lag.

What am I even supposed to do with this information?

“Did she…?”

“Talk about you? Yes. Frequently.”

“So you knew I was…?”

“Here? No. She was careful. Although I knew more than she meant for me to know.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“It depends on what you intend to do with that knowledge.”

“What, like I’d go after her? Get revenge for a shitty childhood?”

“Not exactly.”

“Wait…” I watch his body language, what little there is. His eyes… he cares about her. A lot. “You want to protect her. From everything.”

“I began to put that plan into place a long time before he took things too far. She didn’t know, but I was almost ready to take her away from him. To make her disappear. I knew things were coming to a head, but he questioned her. He had been in contact with someone here, I believe. The surveillance footage showed him going into her room. He looked manic.”

“So you were keeping an eye on her?” Tell steps in.

“Always. I rushed back. Marco was blitzed. Drank himself stupid right after.”

“Celebration or remorse?” Alaya sniffs.

Sing shrugs. “Both? I got her breathing. Then I got her out.”

I sag back into my seat, my hands drifting until Gav’s firm grip finds mine. Then Tell’s on my other side.

It barely bothers me that he’s filthy.

“W–Why? Why would you do that for her?” All things considered, it’s the only real question that I can think of at the moment.

“Cynthia was a kind woman. Too kind. Perhaps the only person to show me anything of the sort in my entire life.” He’s completely serious. Frank. Glib, even.

It reminds me of Evan in so many ways.

The tough exterior, used to protecting himself from constant brutality. Cautious of ever showing emotion or weakness.

Sing is just the polar opposite of Ev. Instead of dressing up his pain in arrogance and elevating himself, he just vanished behind a veneer of shadows and stoicism.

Even as I think it, though, I see the vulnerability in his eyes in admitting any of this.

“She treated me like I mattered,” he offers, mistaking my silence for confusion.

As long as it’s been, and as ‘over it’ as I would like to think I am, the words sting just a bit. That little girl who lived through some fucked up shit wants me to throw a fit. It’s not fair that she was nice to someone else when she was so cold to me.

So many times.

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