Page 49 of Ugly Truths
There’s the faintest lift of his brow in a silent invitation to speak again, but my thoughts scatter, leaving me standing there like an idiot, hyper-aware of every nerve ending.
“Is everything okay?” The words are the only ones I can manage.
“Yes.” His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he continues, “I got an update on Peter during a lunch meeting nearby and figured it was a conversation worth having face-to-face.”
Disappointment churns in my chest just beneath the apprehension.
Of course.
Davey mentioned they started putting out feelers for Peter. They may not have known who he was before, but their networks are capable of unearthing information I never could.
Peter still occupies too much space in my mind, haunting my dreams, ensuring I rarely sleep soundly. The terror of his catching up to me has been my constant companion for months.
“Should I start a drumroll?” I attempt, the joke falling as flat as my voice.
A flicker of something curves the corner of Silas's mouth. It’s brief, but it’s there, and it sends my heart skittering.
“According to Davey’s sources, Peter’s in Southern California,” he starts. “Apparently, he’s been bragging that he killed one of his preferred contractors for stepping out of line.” His gaze pins me in place. “Unless he’s developed a habit of that, we’re under the impression he’s talking about you.”
Though I’ve spent months living under the assumption that Peter thinks I’m dead, it doesn’t stop the flood of relief from crashing over me to hear it confirmed. For the first time in over a decade, the ever-present fear eases just a fraction.
“He’s not above killing anyone,” I murmur, untangling my hands from behind my back. “But Luis would’ve heard if someone else went missing when we were in Alma.”
Silas doesn’t respond right away. His arms cross over his chest, studying my reaction. “That’s good,” he says finally, pushing off the counter. When he straightens to his full height, his sheer presence fills the room.
I take a step toward the refrigerator and open it. The idea of fumbling with the coffee maker under his scrutiny is unbearable, so I grab the iced tea off the top shelf. The pitcher hits the butcher block counter with a smallthud.
Avoiding his eyes, I reach for a glass in the cabinet above me. “Yeah,” I pour the tea with forced focus. “It buys us time for the servers, at least.”
“True.” Silas's reply is measured, but it feels like his thoughts are elsewhere.
My fingers tighten around the glass, the etched design pressing sharply into my skin. Looking at him will unravel the fragile composure I’ve managed to piece together.
“Do you need me to do anything?” I ask before taking a long sip of tea, if only to shut myself up.
“No,” he answers. After a pause, he adds, “But I’ve been thinking, it might mean you could actually start over for real at the end of all of this.”
The words stop me cold, and the glass finds its way back to the counter as I process the weight of his suggestion.
“Start over?” My eyes are fixed on the dark liquid instead of him.
“Yes,” he continues, his voice steady. “No more running or hiding. A clean slate.”
His gaze burns against my profile, like he’s searching for the response I can’t seem to form. Suddenly, this whole interaction makes complete sense. He’s already created a plan. It’s written all over his carefully neutral expression and the easy cadence of his voice.
Thisis how he sets me adrift so I’m no longer his burden.
There was never going to be another outcome. I should just be grateful he’s thinking about letting me walk away, but it doesn’t stop my organsfrom feeling like they are turning themselves inside out, twisting and knotting until I can’t tell where the pain begins or ends.
My grip on the butcher block tightens, knuckles turning white. “Yeah,” I agree in a whisper, “I guess you’re right.”
Just as I start to think the conversation is over, Silas's voice cuts through the air—sharp, almost angry.
“Is that all you have to say?”
The words hit me with such force that my back straightens. When I turn to face him, his indifferent expression hasn’t changed.
For a second, I wonder if I imagined it.
