“Well either way, he knew. He was trying to help me, he came so I wasn’t alone,” she spits, voice trembling around the edges.
“And he filled the space.” The words rip out of me, rough, jagged. “That’s his game. Sliding in where I’m not. Dressing himself in family ties and badges he doesn’t own, making himself look like the savior you think you need. But tell me this, Summer—” I lean in, forcing her to meet my eyes. “If Thompson doesn’t exist, what does that make Benny?”
No sound comes from her parted lips.
“Exactly what he is,” I answer for her, my voice dropping to a growl. “A liar with a pretty face and just enough charm to make you forget you’re standing over a pit of snakes.”
Her chest rises and falls too fast beneath the towel, her fingers clawing into the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering her. She shakes her head again, but slower now, like she’s not sure she believes herself anymore.
“You want to hate me because I wasn’t there?” I say, softer, deadlier. “Fine. Hate me. Bite me. Bleed me dry. But don’t you dare hand him the power to write our story with a name that doesn’t exist.”
The bathroom is silent except for the drip of water from her hair hitting tile.
Her lips tremble. For the first time since I came in, her eyes look less like knives and more like something breaking.
I take one step back, enough to let her breathe, enough to keep myself from touching her when she’s still wrapped in lies and wet terrycloth.
She shakes her head as I step back. As though she doesn’t want me to walk away from her. But doesn’t want me close either.
The towel slips enough when she shakes her head that I lose the last of my restraint. In two strides I’ve got her against the wall, plaster cool at her back, my hand crushing the edge of the towel into her chest.
Her gasp breaks in my mouth when I kiss her. Hard. Messy. All teeth and fury, salt from her tears mixing with the copper still on mylips. She shoves at me with one hand, fists the towel with the other, but when I force her mouth open, she breaks into me like she’s been starving too.
I taste the anger first. Then the grief. The part she won’t admit—that she wants me to steal the ground out from under her, so she doesn’t have to stand in it alone.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing like we just fought our way out of fire. Her cheeks are wet, tears cutting clean tracks through the steam. I press my forehead to hers, close enough to feel her shaking.
My voice comes out rough, every word scraped raw. “He knew before I did, it’s the only explanation,” I breathe, the confession more like a curse. “Either he did this himself, or he’s tied to the men who did. Because tell me, Summer—” My voice cracks, rising, desperate, “how the hell else would he know before me?”
She jerks her head, eyes wide, tears spilling in fast. “No… no, he wouldn’t?—”
“He would,” I cut in, my grip closing around her wrist before I realize it, before I can stop it. “He’s in their pockets or standing right beside them. Maybe he didn’t strike the match, but he knew it was coming. And then he ran here—straight into our house—with a story meant to turn you against me.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but nothing comes out. The truth—or the shape of it—hangs between us, heavy enough to crush the air.
“I’m not asking you to believe me because you want to. I’m telling you the truth because I need you to. Harrow is not the man you think he is. He’s a vindictive, lying cunt who played a part.”
“Why does it feel like I’m losing everything?” she whispers, broken.
“You’re not.” I shove the words between us, hard, brutal, because I need her to believe them as much as I need them to be true. “You still have me. You have our home. Our life together.”
Her breathing slows enough that I feel the question before she whispers it.
“So… what next?” Her voice is sandpaper, scraped raw. Her eyes, rimmed red, look up at me with something that isn’t trust but isn’t doubt either. It’s a bleeding thing caught in the middle.
I don’t hesitate. “I’m going to the hospital.” The words land like a hammer. “I’m going to walk into his room, and I’m going to make Harrow tell me exactly how the fuck he knew before I did.”
Her whole body stiffens under my hand. “No.”
It’s a small word, but it hits harder than a gunshot.
My jaw locks. “No?”
She shakes her head, towel slipping at her collarbone. “Not you... me... I should go.”
The laugh that rips out of me is jagged, dangerous. “You think I’m letting you walk into a room with the man who might have killed your parents?”
“I think he’ll talk to me,” she shoots back, voice cracking but fierce. “He’ll tell me what he won’t tell you. And you—” She presses a trembling hand to my chest, holding me back like I’m the fire she’s trying not to burn in, “—you can wait right outside. Close enough to hear every word.”
