Page 40 of Ugly Truths
What if I was wrong?
The thought lodges in my chest, and my mind clings to the remnants of hatred that have been crumbling like drying sand since Alice took my hand in Natalie’s living room. All I could see was the same misery in her eyes that I saw the night she left in June.
I saw Scarlett. The woman I had to grieve in pieces.
Mourning the living is its own version of hell, but mourning someone who didn’t even exist at all? It’s like slipping into a slow psychosis. Sometimes, it felt like I had made the entire thing up.
But in that holding room, buried beneath the cracks in her voice and the weight in her eyes, I caught glimpses of someone I recognized. A tilt of her head. A clipped breath before a sharp remark she instantly wanted to take back. The same strange mix of calculation and conviction I'd become so addicted to.
But this person was messier. Less sure of herself. She looked like someone who had been running on fear for so long that she didn’t know how to stand still. Maybe that’s why I feel so goddamn wrecked.
Because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like Scarlett is completely gone.
The pressure in my chest pushes against my ribs so violently that I can only manage small, shallow breaths.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m out of my chair, grabbing my keys, and heading to the garage. My phone vibrates in my pocket—likely Cillian asking where I’ve run off to in such a hurry from where he watches in the basement office, but I leave it be as I back out of the garage and through the already parting metal gate.
I don’t think about where I’m going. My hands grip the wheel so tightly that it feels like my knuckles might split. The city streets blur around me, and my thoughts race faster than the car.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t even knowwhyI’m doing this.
The drive is too quick. I cut the engine, step out of the car, and head through their courtyard to the steps, barely noticing the late summer air pressing against my skin.
I knock once, twice, and after too many minutes, Natalie opens the door, glaring at me through the crack.
“Silas,” she says, her tone cautious. “What are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, but the words get caught in my throat. My brain is too scrambled to give her more than the most basic words.
“I need to see her,” I manage, almost desperate. “I’m not here to fight. I just… need to.”
My sister studies me for a moment. Something in my expression must convince her because her shoulders slowly relax, and she steps aside, opening the door wider.
“She’s in the guest bedroom,” she says softly, gesturing toward the staircase.
I nod, brush past her to take the stairs two at a time, and storm down the hallway. My nerves vibrate between dread and hunger. I don’t know what I’m going to say, or even what I want from her. It’s not rational. None of this is.
Without thought, I push open the door and step into the room.
Elena is near the bed, tugging a shirt down over her torso. She’s fresh from the shower with damp hair falling to her shoulders in waves, the smell of her coconut body wash wafts in my direction, reminding me ofso many things, but mostly how it feels to press my lips to the hollow of her throat where the scent tends to linger the longest.
Her movements falter at my noisy arrival. In an instant, she braces for an attack; eyes hardening, hands crossed tightly over her chest. Even her knees are slightly bent, as if she might run toward the bathroom or maybe out of town, if given the chance.
The room is silent except for the faint hum of the central air. For the first time since she’s been here, I allow myself to take her in.
Her oval face, the way her cheeks still flush under my scrutiny. She’s strong, but leaner than when she left. It seems like she isn’t working out as often or at all.
When the quiet becomes too much to bear, Elena clears her throat. “If you’re looking for my morning updates, I sent them to Davey.” Her tone reminds me of the time she gave me and one of my senior IT analysts an impromptu demonstration of several email security tools, though it’s missing the same confidence. “I’ll send over more by the end of the day.”
I shake my head. “I’m not here for that.”
Her brow furrows. “Okay,” she says slowly. Tilting her head, she studies me, and for a second, I wonder what she sees. I don’t have to wonder long because her gaze narrows. “If you’re here to make me go back to that basement, at least tell Natalie first. No need to drag me out of here when I’ll go willingly.”
Heat spikes in my blood at that small taste of attitude.
There it is.
My mouth kicks up, and I take another step into the room, shutting the door quietly behind me before locking it.
