Page 38 of A Love Most Fatal

“No guesses?” She turns her head so I can see the side of her face. When I still say nothing, she turns back to me and there’s no hiding the sting in her eyes, the glassiness on the surface. “I sat with a couple as they wept to learn that their youngest sonwould need a funeral. Closed casket,” her voice waivers on the last bit, but she keeps it together, looking just past me.

“He died because he was protectingyou,” she says. “Because I asked him to. Because I couldn’t help myself. Because I justhadto go to that wedding with you.”

Vanessa’s voice is so quiet, but in the stillness of this concrete room, it feels enormous.

“So, I’m sorry, Nate, if I didn’t think to run home to fill you in on all of my comings and goings.”

I have the wherewithal to be chagrined.

Vanessa takes a big breath and I watch her chest rise and fall with the motion.

She pulls her shoulders back and meets my eyes again. That mask is back, but there’s a crack in the foundation now.

My comeback, whatever it might have been, gets caught in my throat. I still want to say something to fill the silence, something mean or hurtful, but she feels bad enough, it’s written all over her face.

“Dinner’s ready,” someone says from behind us. My gaze snaps to the base of the stairs where a young woman who looks mostly like Vanessa leans against the wall shooting fire at me with her eyes. Like if I was a village, I might be pillaged and burnt to the ground after one glare.

“Thanks,” Vanessa says. She goes to brush past me but stops at my side. “We’ll talk after we eat.”

“Right,” I whisper and follow the two of them up the stairs to dinner.

14

VANESSA

Despite how muchI’ve had to do today, it’s somehow still Tuesday. As soon as we sat down for what I anticipated would be a quiet, awkward dinner, I watched out of the window over the sink as Leo rushed out of the guest house with his phone pressed against his ear.

I took a long breath to steady myself for whatever fire he was about to bring, and sure enough, as soon as he came through the back door, he was waving me over. I grabbed a full plate for me, and one for Leo, and led him into my office where we’d work through dinner and for another three hours afterwards.

By the time the problem was sorted out, it was almost 10 PM, and I swear I could feel the weary tiredness between my bones making me move slower. I took as searing of a shower as I could manage and tried very hard not to shed any tears, not until I was done for the day and in bed where I could cry as much as I needed.

I’m not one of the hardened people who never lets themself cry; that would be emotionally inefficient. Instead, I allow myself a small amount of stress crying at least twice per month, and that helps keep me level-headed.

Now, I stand at the door of my guest room and listen to Nate moving on the other side. I imagine him pacing, or rifling through his duffle for something soft to sleep in. I imagine the dog already asleep somewhere, getting its hair everywhere.

I knock.

He answers it immediately, poking his head through the crack. I spot a bare shoulder too, and it’s more defined than his shirts let on. When he sees it’s me, he does a double take, maybe because I’m wearing no makeup, my hair dripping water onto the shoulders of my nightshirt.

Or maybe I really do just look as bad as I thought when I was applying my third layer of eye cream.

“You came,” he says, thankfully lacking that note of derision that’s been there all day.

“I said we’d talk. So, let’s talk.”

A long moment passes before Nate jerks his head and steps back from the doorway letting me in. I follow behind him and look at his pale back as he pulls a T-shirt on. He’s got freckles on his shoulders.

The room doesn’t look very settled into, his clothes are still in their bags, but the bed looks like it was slept on, and his hair is damp too, so he’s at least showered and rested some. The dog is passed out on the little dog bed Nate brought, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Please sit,” Nate gestures to the chair, my chair, in my house, but I do as he says, and he settles on the bench at the end of the bed.

“The stuff you want to know about,” I start, then pause attempting to communicate this in a way that won’t immediately earn more of his scorn. “You can’t un-know it.”

“You said I was safe,” he reminds me.

“You are safe,” I agree, “But you aren’t totally tangled up yet. You still have some plausible deniability.”

His lips twist up into what is almost a smirk, which is the last thing I thought I’d see from him after today.