“I do not wish to keep anything from you,” he said. “If we are to continue this—whatever this is—I will not hide.”
Whatever this is. The words linger between us.
“You’re not a monster,” I said softly.
His mouth curves faintly. “I have been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Silence settled again, but this time it was tender, something fragile and budding.
“I don’t want to compete with ghosts,” I said after a moment.
“You are not competing,” he replied immediately. “You are not replacing anyone.” His voice was firm now. “They were my past. You are . . . ” He hesitates, searching. “My present.”
My chest tightens at that.
The river moves softly beyond the windows.
The house felt different now. Less like a fortress or mausoleum, now it was just a home with history.
He brushed a strand of hair away from my face.
“You know everything,” he repeated softly.
I held his gaze. I believed him.
28
RAPHAEL
Ihave negotiated hostile takeovers with less apprehension than I feel walking into Long Creek beside Belle.
It was absurd.
I have addressed boards, investors, and city councils.
And yet my pulse was uneven. Because this matters, because he matters to her. If I mishandled this, I didn't know if I could recover from it.
She signed us in at the front desk. The receptionist greeted her by name.
She was known here.
We walked down a wide hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables. The walls were painted a soft blue meant to soothe. Framed prints of sailboats and lighthouses lined the corridor.
Belle’s hand slipped into mine as we turned the corner.
It settled me in a way I can’t help but cling to.
The game room was half full. A few residents sat at tables working puzzles while the fluorescent light hummed faintly overhead.
She spotted him first.
“There he is,” she murmured.
He was at a round table near the window, hunched slightly over a thousand-piece puzzle of a mountain landscape. His hair was thinner than in the photographs I’ve seen on Belle’s phone. His posture was slightly bent.
