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“That note you found…well, a while ago, I tried therapy.”
I’m not used to hearing Silas speak like this, almost as though he’s unsure, his tone stilted as he presses on.
“It was because of this recurring nightmare I’d been having. My therapist told me to write what I was thinking when I awoke on a piece of paper. One day I awoke and was already writing…her name, over and over.”
I focus on the tattoo, not letting myself think about him obsessing about another woman, wanting her.
“I stuffed it in that cupboard…that’s where I woke, in the kitchen.”
“When was this?” I ask.
“Two years ago. It’s not happened since. That’s one of the reasons I kept it. I stopped going to therapy, but that note seemed to help. I’d look at that, remember how I lost control, and then force myself to tough it out.”
“And that works?” I guide the needle over his skin.
“It works well enough,” he says. “For me.”
“But who is she?”
“This is the part I never talk about. No matter what happens between us, I want to know you’ll never tell anybody.”
The first part of his statement makes me want to argue because he’s making it sound like something bad could happen between him and me, as though we could be anything other than perfect for each other.
“I won’t,” I say.
He takes a breath, causing me to pause the needle, and raise it away from his heaving back muscles. He seems even tenser today, like this story is tightening his powerful body.
“My mom died in childbirth, so it was just my dad and me. My dad did his best to provide for me but fell in with the wrong crowd. He started working for the Cartel.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “That must’ve been difficult.”
“It was what it was,” he says gruffly, but I can hear the emotion in there. “Anyway, my dad made some mistakes. He made the wrong enemies. One day, on the way to school, somebody sprung out and stuffed a bag over my head. I was eight.”
I keep the gun away from his flesh, not trusting myself with the emotion surging through me.
“That’s awful. Oh, Silas.”
“They took us across the border to some sort of drug processing plant, thinking we’d get them a good ransom. But they wouldn’t listen, and nobody gave a damn about my dad or me. And that’s where Vanessa found us. She was one of the bosses, and she was….”
His voice begins to shake.
I can feel the tragedy emanating from him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, placing my hand on his shoulder as I keep the gun clear.
He turns toward my touch, some of the tension relaxing, but only a little. It’s not enough to stop him from looking like he’s ready to erupt from the chair, attack, or protect someone.
“Evil,” he goes on. “That’s the only word for her. Since we weren’t getting a ransom, the others wanted to take us out into the desert and…well, you can imagine.”
I hate to think of Silas as a kid, standing next to his dad, with black bags over their heads in the desert, waiting for the cartel to…
“But Vanessa wanted to keep us around. She could have somefunwith us, she said.”
“Oh, Silas.” I tighten my hand on his shoulder, wishing there was something else I could say, some way I could make this better. “My dad and I were kept in different huts. Vanessa didn’t do much to me, not compared to Dad, poor Dad.”
He shudders.
I wonder if I should hold him, stroke his hair, or if that would be crossing a line and presuming too much.
