Page 33 of My Fallen Saint

“Ms. Holmes,” he says, and to his credit he looks as if he’d like to call back the nickname. He knows as well as I do that Alex is the only person I ever let shorten my name like that.

Seeing that contrition on his face chips away at my anger, though I don’t want it to. I want to cling to my fury and my pain, holding it in front of me as a shield against this man and his weapon of painful indifference.

“You’re the one who told me you aren’t Alex,” I say, fighting the urge to hug myself. “And even if you were, Alex lost the right to call me that when he left.”

“You’re right, of course.”

“Then just fucking talk to me. How much did you know about Peter and The Wolf?”

“Are we talking about the children’s story?”

“Don’t be an ass. And I want the truth.”

He glances at my purse. “Take out your phone. Unlock it. And hand it to me.”

I start to argue, but decide to comply. He inspects it, apparently decides I’m not recording this conversation, and puts the phone on the table between us. That, I assume, is my signal to continue.

“Well?” I press.

“I became aware that Peter was dealing and that the drugs were flowing in from The Wolf’s organization not long before he was killed. And I also figured that I was in the crosshairs.” His voice is level. Entirely devoid of emotion. “And so I ran, just like you said.”

I squeeze my toes inside my shoes, because he’ll surely see any other reaction. I keep my voice level, too. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

“No.”

“You left me with nothing but a goddamn note.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even say you loved me.” Fuck. If I could reel those words back in, I would, because I damn sure didn’t mean to say them.

He meets my eyes, holds my gaze. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

I take a moment to cross my legs, hoping the movement camouflages the wound to my soul. “I want my interview, Mr. Saint. About how you started this foundation. About how it operates. About the work you’ve done in Nevada fighting human trafficking.”

I draw a breath. “I want access to your research room. And I don’t want any more bullshit excuses or postponements. You hurt me, you son-of-a-bitch,” I continue, impressed that I’m keeping my voice level. “But I’m over you, and you will talk to me. Because if you don’t, that refusal will go in the article, too, and I don’t think that will look very good for you or your precious foundation.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches, but otherwise he’s as still as stone. And when he speaks, his voice is as calm and level as a college lecturer. “Don’t set out to malign this organization. We help a lot of people.”

“What about you?”

“I like to think I help them, too.”

I raise a brow. “I can malign you?”

He chuckles. “You can certainly try. I don’t think you’ll find much.” He meets my eyes. “Unless you’re looking for a salacious angle, in which case I can write you up a list of the women I’ve fucked.”

I force myself not to wince. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, and I refuse to take the bait. “You’re probably right that I won’t find much on you,” I admit. “I wonder why that is?”

“Pure thoughts and clean living.”

An unexpected bubble of laughter bursts out of me, and I glance up to see his eyes dancing and his lips curved with amusement. For a moment, we share a look, and I’m taken back a full ten years to when we used to laugh together late into the night. I trusted him then.

I don’t trust him now.

I clear my throat and look down, uncomfortable with the intimacy of this moment. When I lift my head, his face has cleared, too. Everything except his eyes. Maybe it’s my imagination, but they seem sad. Even a bit lost.

“Why are you so invisible? On social media, in the press. I don’t get it.”