“Yes.”
“You had someone watching me.”
“Yes.”
“You disappeared after murdering a man in front of me, then decided showing up in the dark would somehow be an improvement?”
“No.”
The answer catches me off guard.
He does not step closer. Does not reach for the gun. He just stands there with his hands at his sides, letting me decide what happens next.
My finger tightens against the trigger.
“You should be afraid of me right now.”
“I am.”
“You do not look afraid.”
“I know what you are capable of.”
The comments wound harder than they should.
I lower the gun by an inch.
Not enough to make him safe. Enough to keep him talking.
“You should have called,” I say.
“I know.”
“You should have told me you were alive.”
“I know.”
“You should have stayed in Boston and let the FBI drag you out in cuffs for murdering a man in front of them.”
His mouth shifts, but no amusement reaches his eyes. “That was unlikely.”
“I am not joking.”
“Neither am I.”
Something inside me snaps.
I set the gun on the dresser before I do something neither of us can take back, cross the room, and hit him.
The sound cracks across the silence.
His head turns with it.
He does not raise a hand. He does not reach for me. He stands there and lets me breathe through the fury shaking my body.
“You do not get to walk into my bedroom after a month and say my name as though you have any right to sound relieved.”
“I do not have that right.”
