Page 8 of The Villains We Make
She nods, peels a bandage off my forehead. “This is better already. You heal fast,” she says with a smile. “A few more nights and you’ll be back to yourself.”
“A few more nights? No. I need to go. I need my clothes and I need to go.”
“Oh, dear, where would you go?” she asks with a small, kind smile. “We’re buried under snow.”
Silas walks inside carrying a steaming mug.
“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Lourdes says.
“No, don’t go,” I say.
She looks to Silas, who nods. She squeezes my foot, then gives me a warm smile. “You can trust him,” she says.
Before I can tell her you can’t trust anyone, she leaves.
Silas closes the door behind her. He studies me for a moment, as if considering how to proceed, then crosses the room. “Drink this,” he says, holding the mug out to me.
I look up at him. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“It’s not from me. Lourdes made it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“It’s not drugged. That’s Ethan’s MO.”
I glare up at him. “No, you’re right. You want me alert so you can watch my face as you twist the knife.”
“That’s dramatic, don’t you think?”
“It fits, don’t you think?” I retort.
His eyes darken. “Whatever they said about me, it’s not true. They’re liars, O. You should know that by now.”
“I think you’re all liars, Silas. And you’re right, it did take me a long time to see it, but I know now. In fact, I’m very clear now. Where are my clothes? I want my clothes.”
“You’ll get your clothes when you’re being reasonable. And you’re going to need your strength if you want to get out of here, so first things first. Drink this.”
“Or what? You’ll make me?”
He shrugs a shoulder, holding the mug out to me. After a moment, he raises his eyebrows for my response and I have a feeling he would do just what he’s implying. My stomach growls at the scent of hot broth wafting from the mug. He’s right. I do need my strength if I want to get out of here and away from him. Away from all of them. So, I take the mug and sip it. It’s good, the heat of it making me realize how cold I feel inside.
Silas pulls over a chair and sits down, watching me as I sip the broth slowly. I look at the fire rather than at him. He doesn’t speak, neither of us do, and I remember growing up how he’d keep his head down and do his work. Strong and silent type, Dad would say. I always got the impression that Dad felt some sort of bond with Silas even when Silas wasn’t very nice to him.
Once I’m finished, I set the mug down, feeling a little better.
“Whatever they told you, it’s a lie,” he says.
“They didn’t have to tell me anything. They showed me. They showed me the security footage of you leaving my house half an hour before the fire destroyed it.” Tears leak from my eyes. The house is gone. Does Dad even know?
“I didn’t set that fire. Period. The end.”
“I saw you. I watched you walk away.”
“Did you watch me strike a fucking match?” he asks, his tone sharp and cutting. As soon as he realizes it, he gets up and walks away, pushing a hand through his hair and muttering a curse under his breath. When he turns back to me, his expression is guarded. “You saw what Sly and Ethan wanted you to see. There’s more footage you weren’t privy to.”
“Oh? Do you have that, then? Maybe you can show me. Clear your name.”
“Are you and I seriously having this fucking conversation? You know me, O. You fucking know me.”