They are a different color, and they sit in a face with different features, but that, I think, is the reason for my uncanny reaction.
Teddy never used them this way. His danced with laughter, or sometimes brimmed with exuberance, but this man uses that same gaze to house a very different soul.
I feel myself bracing against the chair, almost like he is the big bad wolf, and I might find myself blown away. I am used to strong men thinking I am prey. It comes with the territory of being a woman. They never think you are anything besides something to consume.
This man is inherently no different.
He might be worse than most.
“I want you to be as honest with me as you can,” he says. “It’s important.”
“You’re Teddy’s brother,” I say.
“You know who I am?”
“I know his eyes.”
He blinks and his head jerks back slightly. He didn’t expect to be seen so clearly, or so soon. He was hoping I’d mistake him for a detective.
“I’m Aiden Levin,” he says.
That name probably means something in his world. I bet that sends shivers down venture capitalists’ spines. He’s got that rich guy air that explains why he felt comfortable just coming to where I live and letting himself in.
“And you broke into my apartment. I’m going to call the police.”
His eyes narrow at me just a fraction. “That won’t do you any good, but you’re welcome to do so if you feel it’s necessary.”
I take out my phone, still keeping eye contact with him.
“Why did you come to my house?”
“You know why I am here. You were connected to Teddy. He’s dead. We need to know why.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, feeling how shallow those words are, especially in an interaction with someone as intense as this.
He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the words.
“Thank you.”
Aiden
I know Leo has been coming here. When I ask him where he has been, it’s not to get information. I always know an answer before I ask a question. This girl has consumed the attention of two of my brothers now. Whether she was connected to Teddy’s death or not, I had to meet her myself.
The girl is pretty. She has a kind of fragility to her that is greatly appealing. Her place is small, neat, clean. Except for the bedroom. That is an unholy mess.
She is curvy, she is short. She has tattoos, though most of them are hidden under her corporate gym attire. She likes to present a facade to the world of competence and conservatism that is being belied by the purple streak in her hair. Interesting, though also adaptive and hardly grounds for judgment.
Her dark hair was tied up behind her head, but strands of it are coming undone, just like the rest of her.
So. She is sweet, cute, a little pedestrian in her tastes, apparently non-threatening…
She’s also a liar.
I can see it written all over her face when she looks at me. There is guilt stamped in the very center of each of her eyes.
I can’t be certain what she is lying about, but I know she’s not telling the truth.
She is looking at me with an expression I am familiar with, having essentially raised three brothers. She knows she should be in trouble; she just doesn’t want to say for what.
