“You okay?”
“I guess.”
I lean my head onto his shoulder. He’s warm and comforting, and I feel so damn safe with him. Like I’m home. The delicious smell of pies helps the feeling settle deep inside me. Will I ever smell pie and not think of Wes?
We all exist in silence for a few minutes, Noah doing something on his laptop in the kitchen, Wes and I cuddledon the couch together. I should feel bad that Shane is tied up in the other room, not having a very good day, but I simply don’t. He was probably going to kill me and steal the rest of my share of my father’s estate. Maybe he was getting extorted by Jones. But I was his wife, and he was more than happy to extort me.
Wes gets up, collects all of our mugs, and pours us whiskey in new glasses. Then he works on getting the fire going. When he finally settles back down next to me, I turn and lay my legs on his lap. At the kitchen counter, Noah scrolls through Shane’s phone. Once in a while he swears under his breath, but I just don’t want to know what he’s finding.
A timer goes off.
“Can you get those?” Wes calls to Noah. I snuggle closer to him as the whiskey warms my belly, Wes’s solid form and the cozy fire comforting me in a way nothing else ever has. There are so many conversations to be had, but for now I’m taking this moment by moment.
“Yup.” Next come the sounds of Noah opening a drawer, then the oven, then letting the oven door click shut and turning it off with a beep.
“Calliope?” Wes says softly, kissing the top of my head so sweetly. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I need to be the one to decide what to do about Shane. I just… get him more. There’s more to Shane than what you’ve seen.” Fuck, I hate how defensive I sound, but I’m working through this all in real time. I loved him once, long ago, and I’m trying to understand how that man became a vicious serial killer.
Wes stiffens next to me. “How so?”
“I should’ve divorced him years ago. That much is true. But when I think about how he waswhen we first got together… he was so vulnerable. So hurt.” I glance at Noah in the kitchen. He’s closed his laptop and is leaning on the counter watching me, the whiskey glass clutched in one hand.
“We’ve all been hurt, sweetheart,” Wes says softly, rubbing my shins on his lap.
“I know.” I run a finger from his neck to his belly, feeling his muscles shift under my touch. “He had a total shit childhood. His father had him in the business from the time he could read, practically. And when he was murdered, Shane totally fell apart.”
How he was raised wasn’t his fault. The fact that his father was murdered wasn’t his fault. The adult he became? That part was.
Wes nods. He’s heard this before.
“Murdered, huh? Who killed him?” Noah walks toward us, leans against a pillar, and crosses his arms.
“He didn’t talk much about it. Something about how his father messed up an assignment, and someone killed him for it.” I breathe out. “He even changed his name once he came to live with my father. Shane used to be James Shane Sorentino, if you believe it.” I huff. That name never seemed to fit Shane. He’d always gone by Shane to his family and close friends, so he only had to get used to his new last name, Robertson.
The men are quiet. I rest my head on the back of the couch and scoot as close to Wes as I can get without climbing in his lap. I shut my eyes.
“Which is probably why when he messed up the drug shipment, it pushed him over the edge.” I’m almost sleepy, which is wild considering the current situation. But I’m freaking exhausted, and warm next to Wes. “Shane was probably afraid he’d end up like his father.”
“How’d his father die?” Wes asks in a weird voice.
“Beaten with a shovel, which is brutal.” I shiver and open my eyes to stare at the floor of the cabin. Shane told me the whole story once, and that was enough. Those were dark days, But for better or for worse—definitely worse—Shane and I found each other.
“When, exactly, was his father murdered?” Noah’s voice is tight, like it’s being forced out of clenched teeth.
“Like ten years ago?” I open my eyes and look at Wes, who is staring at Noah with an odd expression. I sit up straight but leave my legs on Wes. “Why are you guys being so weird? Weirder, I guess, since you’re already serial killers.” I whisper the last two words to be funny, but neither of them even looks at me.
“Calliope, do you remember anything else about that time? Details about his father’s murder besides the shovel?”
“Tell us everything. Anything,” Noah says.
Why is my heartbeat speeding up? There’s something about their calm voices that is sharp and dangerous.
“Uh, they found his father in the woods about an hour away from Portland.” I scrunch my face and let myself remember. “His car was ditched nearby, and they never figured out who did it. I don’t know anything else.”
“What was Shane’s father’s name?” Noah steps close to the couch and sits on the coffee table, elbows on his thighs, staring intently at me.
“Sammy Sorentino.”
