Page 21 of Entwined With You

“Point is,” I say, firmly back-peddling, “I know more than you think. And I’m a hell of a lot more like my sister than you can imagine.”

I watch as his eyes slowly look me up and down. When he reaches my face, his eyes dart quickly away, as if he’s afraid I’ll see too much.

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

Something in his tone makes my breath hitch, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s had an epiphany and seen the truth.

And then I wonder if I want him to.

My entire body goes tense, but whether it’s from desire or fear, I don’t know. I tell myself that the only reason I want him to know it’s really me is because that revelation will hurt him. And I want him to hurt.

No, not just want. I need to hurt him. Because he took everything from me when he betrayed me. He was the man who’d brought me back to life. Who’d taught me how to trust. How to love.

And then he’d pulled the entire damn rug out from under me.

Bastard.

“You okay?”

I draw a breath, yanked from my thoughts. “I’m fine. Why?”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “She told you about Old Blue.”

I should simply say yes. But some perverse part of me takes over and I hear myself saying, “What are you talking about? Who told me?”

His brow furrows. “Sabrina.”

I laugh. “Come on, babe. You didn’t even drink that much. What kind of game are you playing?”

He’d started the car earlier, but hadn’t yet put it into gear. Now, he kills the engine. “Game?”

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes. “Of course, I know Old Blue. I was with you when you bought her. Not to mention the half-a-dozen times you went to the lot before you finally talked yourself into it.”

I see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows. I lean back, looking casually into his eyes, only to be lashed by the pain I see there. Pain and loss so intense I wish I hadn’t started this. More, it makes those doubts bubble back up again. That maybe he really is innocent. Maybe he had nothing to do with the van at all.

Maybe his pain is as real as mine.

“Sabrina?”

My name sounds like a prayer, and it takes all of my strength not to reveal everything right then.

Instead, I shift in the seat, so that I’m facing him rather than the road. “You said it yourself. If I’m going to be her, I have to be her.”

His shoulders slump, as if I’ve just stolen all the color from his world. Right then, I wish I could call back my words. I’d wanted to hurt him—true. But that wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. I’d anticipated guilt mixed with pain, not this horrific longing that breaks my heart. Not this profound sadness that makes me wonder—once again—if everything I’ve believed is horribly, painfully wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He shakes his head, as if he can’t manage words right then.

“I shouldn’t have teased you about the car. She told me, of course. She talked about how adorable it was that you’d go back every day, wanting it so badly. You’d never had money before. Then some con had scored big, and you were flush. But you couldn’t bring yourself to spend it.” I know exactly what some con was, but I decide to be vague, afraid I’ll play the part too well.

“I’m going to find out who planted that bomb,” I say, both because it’s true and because it feels like another way to toss my camouflage back up. “I’m going to find out who killed her.”

“I hope you do. And when you do, I want five minutes in a room with them.”

For a moment, silence hangs between us, and I realize I’m holding myself back from comforting him.

“I was hopelessly in love with your sister.”