Page 78 of Silent Is The Heart

“I told you, boy,” he growls as I writhe against him and knee the fuck out of his thighs. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a thief. I’m not the same man I was. You’re all I got left,” he adds, giving me a shake. “Why would I steal from you when you put a roof over my head? I’ve got to check in with parole. What could I do with that kind of money?”

Buy some fucking goats, go on Barn Builders, and find some new wife he can beat? How the fuck should I know?

“Skip fucking town?” I growl, deciding I just want out of his hold instead of wasting my energy battering him with my knee. Tugging at his arm, I get free with little effort, almost like he let me go.

“Well, I ain’t,” he pants, holding his hands out to the sides. “I’mhere.”

“Sir, you can’t be in here,” a man calls from the doorway. “You’ll need to come with me.”

“It’s all right,” Leonard assures him, waving a hand but not taking his eyes off me.

“Mr. Bennick, are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just a disagreement with my son.”

Glancing around the sparsely furnished room, I can see an indent in the pillow on his bed. Rumpled sheets. His work boots are neatly aligned at the end of his bed. There’s a wall locker open with his uniforms hanging up in it. His meager collection of sweatshirts, pants, and underwear is stacked in the cubbies. The duffel bag he showed up to my apartment with is lying listless and empty at the bottom of the cabinet. It doesn’t look like someone who just absconded with tens of thousands of dollars.

What’s really baffling, though, is the old photograph taped to the inside of the door. Him, Mom, and me. I look like I wasabout eight years old. We’re all smiling—a rare moment before his drinking got too out of control.

“Use your head, son,” his voice cuts through the torrent of confusion inside me.

Glancing behind me, I can see that the wolves have stood down. It’s just me and Leonard. I look back at him, wondering what in the hell he’s talking about.

Exhaling like he’s frustrated, he adds cryptically, “Whoelsedo you know that could play you?”

For once, I don’t disregard his words. A taste of bile creeps up my throat at the image that manifests. Wolf isn’t even a consideration. There’s only one other person in my life in a position where they could play me—Aaron. No. He wouldn’t. There’s no way he’d be behind something like this. The only way would be if Jason—

Jason…the guy Aaron threw me on the fence for just days ago before our miraculous make-up.

CHAPTER 39

Aaron

I knew something was wrong when I woke up alone. He’s never gone off and left without saying goodbye.

The radio in the Suburban repeats what I heard earlier on my lunch break. S&H Tattoorobbed.I still can’t believe it. This is the last thing he needs after everything I’ve put him through lately.

When I stopped by the shop, Wolf said he took off as soon as the police were done getting a statement from him early this morning. I checked my house, thinking he might be waiting for me there like he used to. Except he wasn’t. He hasn’t answered any of my messages or calls either. There’s only one other place he could be…

Turning off the road onto the gravel drive that leads to the water’s edge, I spot his bike parked next to the ivy-covered pump house. He’s here. Athis spot.

I can’t believe he drove his bike in this rain. Give it another ten-degree drop, and it’d be sleet. This is ridiculous. He’s taking his SUV back, whether he likes it or not.

Scanning the shoreline, I can’t find him anywhere. There’s no shelter out here unless he snuck into the old pump house, but it looks like it’s been boarded up for decades.

Rounding the corner of it, my shoes splash against the wood decking that overlooks the shore. I’m ready to give up hope, finding nothing but the drab backdrop of the dormant ivy that blends in with the worn dock under the dreary light of the overcast sky. Squinting through the rain, I blink when something moves, assuming it’s a trick from the droplets in my eyes. I blink again when I see skin, tatted skin that nearly blends in with his scenery.

He’s soaked to the bone, literally. Elbows resting on his bare knees, his fingers are steepled under his chin. My God, why is he in nothing but his boxers? It’s freezing out.

Eyes closed, it almost looks like he’s sleeping, sitting upright with his back to the ivy. His hands move, sliding up over his lips like someone lost in prayer, and he opens his eyes to the sky. I don’t know how big of a hit this robbery was to him, but this can’t be how he goes about ‘thinking’ in his spot. This isn’t healthy. Peeling off my coat, I rush toward him.

“Easton? What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze to death.”

“Did you play me?” he calls in a strange tone I’ve never heard him use. “Was it all a game?”

“What?”

“The money.”

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