“Did you hear what I said, Cal? I wanted her dead. I wanted to kill her.”
“I heard you.”
“And you don’t have anything to say to that? She was your friend. You mentored her for years, watched her find her footing in the Bureau?—”
“Missed every possible sign that she was a traitor,” I add.
“Who cares if she was a traitor?! That doesn’t make what I did right. It doesn’t change the fact that I wanted her dead, and I acted on that desire. I did everything in my power to make it a reality.”
With my hands on his shoulders, I turn him again, putting his sudsy back in the water’s reach. Onyx eyes rush over my face, searching for something he’ll never find.
“That makes me like him, Cal. It makes me like the monster who took Diana and Cameron from me. It makes me like the bastard who kidnapped Selene and beat her, who put her bruised face on national television and pressed a gun to her temple. And if I’m like them, how can I deserve you? How can I deserve her? How can I deserve the shared holidays and the house big enough for the three of us and the family we might want to build one day? How can I deserve any of it?”
My brows lift in surprise as I grasp on to the only shocking thing he’s said. “You want a family?”
Little drops of water bounce off of his broad shoulders and into my face, but I stare at him unblinking. With all that he and Selene have loss on the kid front, I’d resigned myself to areality where I got to have them and only them. I never allowed myself to picture kids, to envision bedtime routines and hectic schedules due to extracurricular activities. It would be enough for me, life with just Selene and Beck, but the thought of more than that makes my chest warm with hope I force myself to get a hold of because even if Beck and I agree we want children, we don’t know if Selene does.
A huff made of frustration and amusement sends Beck’s breath skating over my cheeks. His shoulders sag as he shakes his head like he can’t believe I’m asking him that question in a moment like this.
“I want everything with you and Selene, Cal. You know this.”
I take his face in my hands, transferring remnants of soap bubbles from my hands to the thick hairs of his beard. “I do know that. I just didn’t think kids were on the table.”
“That’s part of everything, is it not?”
“Someone’s feeling better,” I muse and then say, “Yes, I suppose kids is a part of everything.”
He brings his hand up, fingers tracing the smile on my lips. “Don’t get too excited. We’d have to talk about it with Selene first, and that can only happen after we get her away from Aubrey.”
“I know.”
And I do. There are so many obstacles ahead of us, but there’s goodness too. All of it waiting on the other side of the nightmares and guilty consciences and husbands who refuse to let go even when they don’t want or appreciate what’s trapped in their grasp. At the moment, I can’t do anything about Aubrey. I haven’t found a solution that allows us to have Selene and keeps him from making good on his threat to have her killed. The speculation surrounding Sutton’s sudden death has left me feeling even more helpless on that front.
As usual, everything about Selene seems to be operating outside my circle of control, but tonight I’ve found a way to soothe our partner. Thanks to Beck’s candidness, I finally feel confident in my ability to comfort him, to soothe the part of him that’s slowly being smothered by a weight that only becomes bearable if someone else steps in and lifts it off your chest.
Beck reaches around me, grabbing the body wash and the same washcloth I used on him to start washing me. I always allow him to return the favor even though the showers are never for me, so he looks confused when my fingers wrap around his wrist, stilling him.
Our eyes lock, and I drop the mask, laying my heart and my hate bare for him.
“I wanted her dead too,” I tell him. “And if it had been me instead of you, she would still be rotting away in a hole in the ground.” His eyes stretch wide, but his gaze is soft with relief. “If you’re a monster, Beckham, then I am too.”
12
BECK
Dr. Penelope Pike has perfected the art of silence.
I’ve sat across from her for an hour now, and the only sound that’s come from her side of the room is the scratching glide of her pen across the notepad she has pressed against her thigh. None of our previous sessions have gone this way—me, filling all the time with words I’d rather not say; her, writing down observations I’ll never know the true extent of—so, it’s awkward, leaving me impatient and desperate for the volley of dialogue instead of the loneliness of a monologue.
“Can you say something, please?”
She raises her head, tapping the end of her pen on her chin. “Does my silence bother you, Agent Beckham?”
I shift in my seat, running my palms over my pants. “Yes.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because I’m tired of hearing my own voice.”
