Boone finally sits, choosing the least damaging position.
“That post wasn’t your fault,” Boone says to Delaney.
Delaney’s laugh is small and sharp. “No. But the thing it dragged up is.”
Boone’s eyes narrow. “Delaney?—”
She shakes her head fast. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t try to comfort me out of accountability.”
Silas leans forward. “That’s not what he’s doing.”
“It is,” she says, and her hands clench on the edge of the chair. “All of you have been… careful. Like if you tiptoe around me, I won’t crack.”
Silence.
Then Boone says it. “I hate being lied to.”
Delaney goes still.
So do I.
Silas’s head tilts. He didn’t expect Boone to go there first. Boone doesn’t care.
“I don’t mean the town,” Boone continues. “I don’t care what they think. I care what happens under my roof.”
Delaney’s throat works. “I didn’t lie.”
Boone’s gaze holds hers. “You let me believe something that wasn’t true.”
Her eyes shine, but her voice stays stubborn. “I let you believe I wasn’t a walking headline.”
Boone’s hands flex on his knees. “I let you into Sadie’s life. Into my house. And I did that because I trusted you.”
Delaney flinches at the word.
“I wasn’t hiding to hurt you,” she whispers.
“That’s not the point,” Boone says.
Silas makes a sound—he wants to interrupt.
I don’t let him.
Because Boone doesn’t do this often. Not the blunt honesty. Not the vulnerable anger. When he speaks this way, it’s because he has to.
Boone keeps going.
“My ex-wife lied to me,” he says, hardening. “Not always with words. Sometimes just with… omissions. Decisions she made on my behalf. And I’m not doing that again. I can’t.”
Delaney’s face drains of color.
I feel it then. The old wound under Boone’s anger. Not suspicion. Fear.
Boone looks away for a fraction of a second, then back.
“I don’t want to look at you and wonder what else I don’t know.”
Delaney’s shoulders shake once. She swallows it down.
