“No. But what if I told you that he’s hiding something. That hedidsomething big. That he’s desperate because things are falling apart.” He eyes me, like I’m supposed to be reading something into the vague shit he just told me. He tilts his head, exasperated. “Are thingsnotfalling apart right now?”
“Yeah, no thanks to you.” I shrug, then pause, understanding dawning on me. “Becauseof you. It’s for a reason,” I say, more of a question than anything.
“Of course I have a reason,” he spits, and I recall our conversation in the gazebo. “He’s only as safe as the number of secrets we keep. It’s his entire business model: secrets.”
I glance down at my shoes, trying to unravel the threads wound tightly around all of us, unable to neatly follow it to Will even though Iknowhe’s at the center of it.
“Andy, think.”
“Shit. Lily?” I suddenly realize, the enormity of that secret—that Will dated her, Olivia’s best friend, before her death—slams into me.
Ian just stares at me, his gaze begging me to go on, like I’m missing something.
“Okay, so…Will dated Lily. Olivia and Lily were best friends. She…died,” I say, my voice dipping. “Clearly, Liv didn’t know, but that’s just a moral failing on Will’s part. What else is there?”
“I need to know if you want to be involved. I’m not telling you anything until I know you’re in.”
“How does this solve my problem, though? I mean, I’m…I’m all for taking him down. But I have bills to pay, Ian. People who depend on me. He owns me.” The words are lead—are poison in my mouth.
“I know,” he says, his voice soft as his gaze dips to the ground. “My trust is substantial. I’ll cover whatever he was covering.”
My hand rakes through my hair all on its own, and I realize I’m standing. “No way,” I tell him, my brows drawing tight as I try to understand this man who’s usually so cold. So calculated. “Just so you can own me instead? No thanks.” I head toward the door, sadness skating between the vertebrae in my spine—in and out, like it knows it has no right to be here. I never assumed I would get out of this early. This shouldn’t feel so gutting.
“Tell me, Andrew,” he says, voice raised as he follows me. “What would it be like to stop lying? Do you even remember the truth anymore?”
“Do you?” It comes out more desperate than I thought possible, and I feel over exposed.
“IwishI didn’t remember the truth. But once you do, turning away from it will eat at you. Necrotizeeverythingyou touch. Everything you think about touching.” He pauses; Ithink about Sloane, the way I’ve wanted her and the way I shouldn’t. “I said I had a way out. Yes, it involves helping me. But once he’s been exposed, we’re both free. We are all free.”
The thudding is so loud, in my ears, in my chest, in my throat. Breathing is hard, like I’m on the peak looking down, hard for oxygen and terrified to fall.
“I need to think about it.”
“Of course. You know where to find me.
19
Sloane
The linoleum in the room is mocking me. It’s too pallid, too yellow, too clean, and it smells sour, like the disinfectant was so pure they couldn’t bear to throw some lemon in there. I run the rubber toe of my converse against it until a dark line appears and smile, satisfied.
“Ms. Tucker?” a woman we aren’t familiar with says, her head popping between the door and the frame.
“Hi.” Mom sits straighter in her chair, and I wince because it takes effort. She’s all brittle bones and thinly disguised apathy, but that is why today I brought a puzzle. These rooms are so dreary, and the treatment bays are worse when the dogs aren’t there. Things were so busy this week, what with the Gen and Grant of it all, that I forgot to check what programming is happening today.
Problem-solving, though: it’s really what I do best, maybe other than painting, and so I brought this puzzle. It’s kittens, something Connie really loves, on a beach of all things. Not entirely sure if cats can, in fact, swim, but they looked soprecious on the box, and my mom’s not a stickler about realism—neither am I, and?—
“—is not working as well as we’d hoped.”
“I figured,” my mom says, her smile more of a shrug, and I look between the doctor and my mother.
“Okay,” I say, my third cup of coffee skipping through my veins. “What’s next? There was a list?—”
“Sloane.” My mom’s frail hand finds mine, squeezes it, and the doctor slips out of the room.
“Did you already talk about the next option? Sorry I was lost in my thoughts,” I huff, nervously, dread pricking my cold skin. I reach for my sweater, hastily pulling it over myself before pumping the hand sanitizer, suddenly conscious of all the germs.
“Honey…” Connie’s eyes, the sockets hollow from the way she’s been wasting away, are tired, and I know what she’ll say if I let her.
