Page 51 of My Fallen Saint

He clears his throat but doesn’t speak. I’m not sure if he thinks we’re done, or if his words are blocked by emotion.

Just as I’ve decided he’s not going to say anything else, he continues. “Those kids. It was like they were shadows of themselves. The foundation’s done an amazing job helping them, as have the organizations we support. They’re doing better than was expected. All of them,” he adds, and I think of Sue and nod.

“But what they went through…” He closes his eyes for a moment, then rallies and describes what he saw once the house was cleared. The squalor. The stench. He gives me more than I want to hear, but what I need to make the story deep enough to truly explain what happened to the kids.

“If I’d had the chance,” he says at the end, “I would have put my hands around that bastard’s neck and not stopped squeezing until every bit of life had drained out of him.”

I nod and shiver. Not because I disapprove, but because I understand exactly how he feels.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “I know that was hard. Unless you have something to add, I think we’re done.”

“Just this—that you can’t understand the torment unless you’ve witnessed something like it. And for that reason, I hope that no one reading your article understands it at all.”

Now my throat is thick, because I can’t help but think that the something like it that he witnessed wasn’t the raid on Myers’ house, but something that came before. Something that’s the driving force behind his consulting and private security jobs.

I don’t ask him, of course, but I will ask Devlin. Not because I’m nosy, but because in one conversation, I’ve come to like this Nordic god of a man with the wounded soul.

I thank him again and we both stand. We’re about to step out of the break room when he says, “Listen, there’s one more thing.”

“Sure. What is it?” I fish my pen out of my pocket, ready to take notes.

“It’s Saint. I want to make sure you understand that he needs to be focused right now.”

“I’m not following.”

He sighs. “Look, Ellie. I like you. But he’s my closest friend, and you’re a distraction.”

“Excuse me?”

“He told me you two had a thing a while back. What he didn’t tell me was that it gutted him when it ended, but that’s clear enough. But it did end, and he’s made peace with that. Don’t go making it complicated.”

I open my mouth to rip into him, decide that cooler heads will prevail, and tamp down on my anger. Or try to. I’m sure my words are cold as ice when I say, “I’m writing an article about the Devlin Saint Foundation, so he’s a bit on my radar. If Saint thinks that’s distracting, he can tell me to his face. And trust me. I have no intention of complicating anything.”

“Hey, I’ve said my piece. Now we’ll let the chips fall where they may.”

And then he turns and walks out the door, leaving me behind to wonder what the hell just happened.

More than that, he’s made me question if maybe Alex’s departure all those years ago really did hurt him as much as it hurt me.

But if that’s the case, then why the hell doesn’t he simply tell me the truth?