“Do you know where Derek is?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“Somewhere in Central America, maybe South America right now, I don’t know,” he says. “I have a couple of guys who look into him now and then. He’s an addict living in poverty. He’s not a threat to me the way that Damien is.”
He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, almost wounded.
“I thought Damien knew,” he says. “He knew what his brother was battling with, the way he was getting more impulsive, more paranoid. Derek fleeing and disappearing isn’t out of line with how he was acting ten years ago. He’s just broke now. Broke and friendless.”
“If Damien thinks you killed his brother, no wonder he hated you,” I say.
He nods.
We sit in silence for what feels like minutes. My mind is feeling with the revelation that the man I’ve loved for so long has a past and a present that terrify me.
“I’m ending my involvement in it all,” Vincent says. “It was going to be next year, but after everything that happened, I’m ending it this month. Handing things off to someone new and stepping back forever.”
He watches me as he says it and I know what he’s thinking. Shaking my head, I stand from the bed.
“Thank you for your honesty now,” I say. “But it’s too late. You lied to me. For months and months. An afternoon of confessions doesn’t change everything that’s happened.”
11
Vincent
One last nightin the penthouse hotel room before I fly back home. And if my watch is correct, a plane just took off from La Guardia headed to California, taking my Hazel away from me.
Gone. Like everyone else. Nothing left but the dying embers, the last evidence left of a relationship set ablaze by my mistakes.
I should just be grateful she’s alive. That she wasn’t harmed more than she was. But this gratitude can only carry me so far. The loss of Hazel - the final loss, without a hypothetical future to bolster my hopes - gnaws at my stomach and sits heavily on my chest at night, keeping me from sleep.
I’m sitting beneath that weight when I hear a knock at my door. Climbing out of bed, I take my gun from the dresser and hold it in my right hand, opening the door with my left.
It’s not the enemy, though. It’s Hazel.
“Hi,” she breathes.
“Hi,” I reply.
“I want to come in,” she says.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I swing the door open and then close it behind her, locking the deadbolt before resting the gun back on the dresser. Hazel eyes it warily, then looks at me.
“Expecting someone else?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Damien. We’ve got word that he survived the bullet wound. Tell your friend Kristen she needs more moving target practice.”
“I’ll let her know,” she says dryly. “So what does this mean? We’re right back where we started? Your old friend thinks you killed yourotherold friend, and therefore he wants to kill you and everyone you love?”
“Maybe,” I reply. “It depends on whether he believes me. If I were him, I wouldn’t. I’d want proof.”
I come closer to her, unable to resist the impulse to get as close to her as possible. I need to feel her skin, need to run her silky hair between my fingers. I take a shot, expecting her to recoil and step out of reach.
She doesn’t.
“So this Damien guy is still out there,” she says slowly as I pull her closer. “And he probably still hates your guts. Which means you’re in danger, and I’m in danger by association.”
“Correct,” I reply.
