“I don’t let people in, because every person who matters to me becomes another thing they can use to control me,” I say. “That’s how it works. You care about someone, and they become leverage.”
She pauses what she’s doing, and touches me. It’s just a brush of her fingers against my skin, but the goose bumps spread up my entire arm.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I think anyone who had you and threw it away didn’t deserve you in the first place.”
I should pull away. Because she’s still Art’s, and because this is exactly how it starts. This is how people become targets—when I begin to care about them.
“The eggs are burning.”
“Shit.”
She spins to attend to the stove, and I exhale and step back. She salvages the eggs and plates them, and we move to the table. Cavall positions himself strategically between us, tracking every forkful.
“Can I ask you something?” she says after a few minutes.
“Depends.”
“How did you end up down there?”
“In the Lye?”
She nods.
The base of my skull tightens. “Someone I cared about got into trouble. I stepped in to help. And then they don’t let you leave.”
Her face pales. “A friend.”
“That’s what I said.” I shovel another forkful of food into my mouth.
“Art,” she says. “Was it Art?”
Sighing, I push away from the table and cross my arms. “It’s not his fault. He didn’t know what he was getting into, and I made my choice.”
“But you’re still there. After all these years. Can’t you just leave?”
“They’ve got footage of things I’ve done.” I meet her eyes and let her see the darkness. “The kind of things that wouldn’t just hurt me, it would hurt my family. So no, Half-Pint. I can’tjust leave.”
“Lance.”
My throat closes up. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“It’s not right.”
“Art’s trying to help me.” I force conviction into my voice because I need it to be true. If Art’s still good, then my sacrifice meant something. If he isn’t, then I destroyed my life for nothing. “He’s a good man, Genevieve. Whatever doubts you have, know that. I wouldn’t have—” I grit my teeth.
“You wouldn’t have done this if he wasn’t?”
“He loves you.”
She’s quiet for a long time.
“If you believe in him that much, then I’ll try.”
The words should make me feel better. Instead, something twists behind my ribs.
We finish eating in silence. She moves to wash the dishes, and I stand to help, which is a mistake, because suddenly we’re side by side, our arms brushing every time one of us reaches for something.
She hands me a wet plate to dry, and our fingers tangle.
