“No,” she clips. “Not that that’s any of yourbusiness.”
She moves for the door, and I slide left and right, blocking her advance. Snatching my arm, she shoves me. “Get out of my way.”
“Not until you tell me why you stole that butter knife.”
She pauses, hand still gripping my arm when she laughs. “You’re asking about that when it happened two weeks ago?”
I grab her wrist holding me as I stare back at her. “Why did you steal it?”
“You think because of that stunt you pulled in the trial I owe you answers?” she scoffs. “It was a stupid move.”
“I think what you mean isthank you.”
We both tense in the silence, waiting for the other person to shift.
As she searches my eyes, she whispers, “You question why I stole it, and yet you reported it to no one.”
I slide her grip off my shoulder and drop my hand to my side.
She leans forward until our noses nearly brush. “So before I tell you anything, I’m going to need to know why you haven’t.”
I shake my head. Because I’ve been asking myself the same question. Ever since I noticed jars of blood in that room on the way to meet Devin, something stopped me from telling him. Something changed for me in that moment. So much so, I’ve been guarding it. I haven’t even felt comfortable yet to share it with Aelia.
“Because I know who you are,” I whisper back a half-truth. “Marcella Briarstone. Brother is Connor Briarstone, who murdered a priest in cold blood. Left him for dead in the chapel with stab wounds. They found him the next morning for service. And it took far too long for them to catch your brother, but he eventually was turned in by an anonymous source. Funny thing is, they say murderous habits like that can sometimes be hereditary.”
She moves quickly, pinning me against the door by my throat. I struggle for a breath against her as she grits out, “Then I find it almost comical you’ve decided to test your theory in a locked room alone with said sister of Briarstone.”
I try to clear my throat for a breath. Barely able to squeak out, “And yet you saved all those women today.”
“What’s your point?” she growls, pushing harder.
“There’s…more to you…than just your family name…”
She removes her forearm from my throat, and I catch myself on my knees before I fall, sucking in breath after breath. When I lift my head, she’s taken a few steps back from me.
I continue in a raspy voice, “It doesn’t matter where you came from. What matters is the choices you make.”
“Stop talking,” she snaps.
The storm in her eyes quiets my response. The way her fingers curl into fists, I know I’ve struck a nerve.
Straightening, I say between panted breaths, “Why did you steal that butter knife, Marcella? I worry it wasn’t because you wished to harm someone, but because you’re afraid someone will harmyou.”
She swallows, her eyes scanning the floor for some hidden answer.
“Please…” I beg in a whisper. “Something isn’t right. And something tells me we must work together. Why are our memories gone? Why the nightmares? Why travel by twos, and stay in our rooms until daybreak?”
She flicks her hard brown eyes to me. Her voice is soft as she admits, “I don’t know.”
We stand there, calming our breaths as a fragile understanding settles between us.
“And that?” I motion out the window. “The trial? That’s the first of three. Do you really want to be going through all of this on your own?” I don’t dare remind her that I essentially saved her life.
It doesn't need to be said. Not for a woman like her. Because based on her expression, she’s already considering it. Holding it on her shoulders until she might find a way to free herself of it.
And that’s not even considering the fact she slowed her own progress to aid and save multiple other women.
As her expression softens into consideration, I step forward. Thinking if I tell her the one thing I saw—the jars of blood—maybe I can convince her that not all is as it seems. “Can I trust you?”
