Page 16 of Trail of Betrayal
You should come by. He’s here.
Send.
The message disappears. I set the phone facedown beside the glass, and his sobs keep spilling into the silence like they never stopped.
On cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it.
“Isabella?” I ask.
He lifts his head, lashes damp. “She’s probably freaking out.”
“About what?”
“About you. About me. About everything,” he says in a hollow voice.
I lean back, feeling the smooth resistance of quartz under my hip. The seconds settle heavily between us. Evidence, suspicion, years of half-truths—all hang in the stale air.
“You know what the worst part is?” I murmur.
He lifts his chin, hope flickering in his glassy stare. “What?”
“It’s not even original.” I trace a finger around the rim of my glass. “Every excuse, every ‘it just happened,’ it’s all so ordinary.”
He scrubs at his face with trembling fingers. “I know I fucked up. But I can fix it. We aren’t in love.”
His plea is so stereotypical I almost supply the next line for him. I watch the soft overhead lamp catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tiny tremor in his Adam’s apple, the way his knuckles go white when he curls his fist around my dress. I step backward, letting him fall to all fours.
“You have to know, she doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why I did it,” he says, voice ragged.
I nod once. “That’s always the hardest part to admit.”
He stops dead, and for a moment the city’s glow behind me flickers on his face—hope, regret, shame—all mingling in the amber wash of streetlights. “I love you. I do. Please don’t throw it away.”
I let the silence bloom. It fills the apartment like mist, pressing every truth into the open.
Then I smile. Not a wide grin, just a thin slash of control. “Isabella will be here any minute.”
His eyes go wide, and then he jumps to his feet. “What?”
I flip my phone around so he can see the last message on my lock screen. “On my way!”
He staggers back, as though the walls themselves have shifted under him. “You can’t be serious.”
“My phone doesn’t lie.”
He glances at the door, then back at me, dread twisting his features. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “You’re going to do it for me.”
He opens his mouth, maybe to run, maybe to plead more, but the doorbell intervenes with a sharp chime that rattles his spine. He jerks. I don’t.
I walk to the door, each step measured, heels clicking against the hardwood threshold. I pause, take a breath that tastes of whiskey and finality, then turn back once. He is standing with his hair lank, shirt damp, face ashen.
For a flicker of a heartbeat, I almost pity him. But he gets what he deserves, so I step forward and open the door.
Isabella stands there, skin pale under the hallway light, eyes ringed with exhaustion. She holds her phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Steam rises from the cup, carrying the bitter scent of early wakefulness.
Our eyes meet. I’m not even sure if she sees Lawrence yet.
