Page 55 of Moth
But her name isn’t familiar. A name tag pinned to her chest reads, “Faith,” which seems ironic enough to explain the unease. If only Branden had any faith left in me—maybe then I could avoid the interrogation that I know is coming.
Right on cue, he clears his throat. “You never ask for money. And since when are you into designer purses?”
Biting my lip, I say nothing while Faith leads us to a secluded booth near the back of a beautifully decorated dining room.
“H-Here you are,” she says, cutting her eyes to the floor as Branden pushes past her and settles onto the bench. She’s gone before I’ve even taken my seat.
“What did you need the money for?” Branden asks. He casually flips through his menu, but I recognize his tone.
“N-Nothing.” My voice trembles, nearly swallowed up by the clang of silverware and murmuring voices.
I know that he heard me anyway when a fiery shade of red creeps along his neck. “Do not lie to me.”
“Nothing! Just some stupid purse—”
“You suddenly drop ten grand on a purse when you wouldn’t even look outside of a Goodwill for furniture for your own apartment?” He shakes his head, his eyes flashing. “Did Dad also tell you that he got a call from Karen Winacott?”
“W-Who?” I shrug again, but even I can admit that the motion is too fast. Too jerky.
With a sigh, Branden sits back against the wall of the booth, but the look in his eyes is anything but placated. “Someone from back home. You probably don’t even remember her.” His tone straddles the dangerous line between sarcasm and neutrality. I can’t tell which reaction is real.
“So, where is this bag that you justhadto have?” he asks, switching the subject. “Don’t tell me that’s it.” He nods to the knitted bag resting on the seat beside me.
“I…” My throat contracts around a hard swallow. “I didn’t bring it.”
“Maybe because this money you suddenly needed…” He forms a steeple with his fingers and places his chin on the very tip. “Does it have anything to do with Mr. Zhang’s ‘problems’ down at the Paper Crane?”
“H-Here you are!” Faith returns to set a jug of ice water down between us, but when she tries to fill my glass, she misses, and water sloshes onto the table instead.
“Dammit,” Branden hisses as he snatches up a wad of napkins. “Just leave it. Fuck—”
“Sorry!” Faith squeaks before darting away, her face beet red.
“Bran, it’s fine.” I grab the pitcher myself and fill my glass. “You don’t have to yell.”
“Then answer my damn question,” he counters, fixing the brunt of his wrath on me. His eyes blaze, and in slow motion, I see my fingers rip away from the pitcher. It falls over again, spilling water as fire lances through my arm. It’s only when I try to reflectively draw it toward me that I realize why. He has my forearm in his grasp, the knuckles white. Bruising. “Zhang’s bookstore got vandalized. Isthatwhy you suddenly needed a couple of thousand?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist, my voice high-pitched. Broken. “Please—”
“Hannah…” His eyes narrow, his grip tightening. “Don’t lie to me. Liam was the one called out to Zhang’s little accident. You didn’t tell me. Why?”
I can’t hide the surprise that crosses my face. “I…I…”
“You tell me everything. Unless someone got inside of your head. Like Karen fucking Winacott, running her goddamn mouth. Did you speak to her?” His voice is so cold, hushed so that no one nearby turns to stare. He’s so good at this. From the outside, even his grip on me could pass for helpful. Supportive.
Nothurting. Numb, I stare down at my wrist, watching as my fingers flex over the table’s surface. “You’re hurting me.”
He flinches, then tightens his grip… Then all at once, he lets me go, sitting back against his side of the booth. “I’m the only one looking out for you, Hannah. Do you have any fucking idea what I’ve done for you? Do you?”
I have an idea.
Terrorized me.
Followed me to another state.
Controlled.
Manipulated.
