“Did it hurt?” I say.
“Nah,” he says. He shrugs and sits back on the bed. “It wasn’t bad.”
“Neither was mine.”
His eyes jump to me, and I watch for a second as his gaze moves up and down my body. Then, with quickening breath, I wait as it settles somewhere right around my belly button.
Like he’s using x-ray vision, and he can see what’s inked over the scar on my lower back. And in my mind, from the recesses of my memory, come the words he spoke all those years ago:You can cover up a scar if you don’t like it, though. You can keep it covered or even get a tattoo there or something.
“Ah,” I say softly as the pieces fall into place. How long has he known? “You remembered.” I move slowly toward him, my pulse pounding through my veins as my mind works to catch up. What does he think of me now that he knows what happened all those years ago? What does he think of the poor, silly little girl who went dumpster diving for breakfast?
My cheeks burn as my eyes sting with unshed tears. I don’t think I want to know the answer to that question. I don’t want to know what he thinks of me now.
“Yes,” he says, unapologetic. “I remembered.” His smirk has vanished; his eyes are still fixed on my torso as I approach.
“When?”I say, tilting my head.
“I saw the picture of you in your room.”
Of course. Duh.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. It’s fine that he knows. No matter what he thinks, I’m okay. I can be okay no matter whatanyonethinks.
“Did you know who I was the whole time?” he goes on.
“I knew the second we met when I was seventeen.”
He widens his knees as I reach the edge of the bed, allowing me to step in closer. It’s an intimate provision, but I know he’s allowing me this near so that I can show him the tattoo. So I move into his space and then turn around, lifting my shirt just high enough that he’ll be able to see.
A thin, raised scar and six words above it:Never more than you can handle.
I don’t jump when I feel his fingers, warm and gentle, tracing the scar. I let him take that liberty, touching me, outlining the scrolling font. I don’t jump either when he lifts his other hand and holds me gently by the hips, turning me around until I’m facing him once more.
I reach out, slowly at first, tentatively, until I see that he’s not going to stop me. Then I reach around the back of his neck, feeling along his hairline until I find it: the thin white line he showed me that day, the one he got from trying to cut his own hair as a child. I run my thumb over the spot, only noticeable because I remember where it is, as his grasp on me tightens, his fingers digging into my hips as his eyes hold me captive.
We know each other’s scars.
“You’re bruised,” he says, his eyes narrowing on the strip of stomach still exposed as I hold my shirt up with my free hand. I let the hem fall.
“Yes,” I say. “From the windowsill.”
“Take some ibuprofen.”
“I will.”
He nods. Then he points to his desk chair. “Sit. What did you want to talk about?”
…That’s it?
He’s not going to say anything else?
A wave of relief and gratitude hit me, so potent that I once again have to squeeze my eyes shut to fight off the tears. “I think we need to talk to Rocco again,” I say, taking a seat in the desk chair. It’s one of those fancy-pants ergonomic ones, the kind that offers lumbar support and a whole bunch of other nice crap.
Aiden nods. “Okay,” he says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why?”
“Because.” I run my fingers through my hair, sighing. “I can’t stand this dead end. Matilda still hasn’t gotten in touch with details about Thomas Freese’s suicide.” Something sharp and mournful plucks at me when I say this, and I push away the thought that my father really could be dead. “Maybe if we asked Rocco, we could somehow set up a meeting with his brother. Lionel has to know something, doesn’t he?” The question sounds desperate.
Aiden’s brows furrow as he stares absently at the floor, a pensive expression on his face. He’s clearly miles away despite sitting not three feet from me. When he finally speaks, his words are thoughtful, like he’s still piecing them together. “Which mystery are you trying to solve right now?” he says.
