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“I would love to,” I say. “But first, I think I’m gonna go get a glass of water. Is that okay?”
Adam shrugs. “Sure.” He scampers off to the swing without waiting for either of us to follow.
“Ilarion…” Taylor warns, her forehead taut with worry when she sees me glance to the window again. “You promised me he was off-limits.”
I made no such promise. I promised I wouldn’thurthim.
I meet her gaze. “I just want a glass of water, Taylor.”
She swallows hard. “Just so you know,” she says softly, “he means the world to Adam.”
13
ILARION
When I enter the kitchen, Archie is leaning against the counter, waiting for me.
“Pakhan,” he says with a respectful nod.
“Archie.”
Even that two-word exchange is a departure from how things used to be. For years, we met in shadows, didn’t use names. Things have changed now. There are no more shadows to hide in. There are no more innocents to protect.
Through the window, Taylor is watching Adam play on the swing, but the calm from earlier is gone. Her back is too straight, her shoulders too tight.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Archie asks. “Coffee? Tea? Juice?”
“I’m good.”
“We also have brandy, if it’s gonna bethatkind of conversation,” he adds.
“What kind of conversation do you imagine it will be?”
Archie shifts to the side so that the kitchen table is directly between us. He’s fidgety, but trying to hide it. As if I don’t notice every fucking thing.
“An honest one,” he says after a small pause.
I can’t help but laugh. “I think we left that in the past, my friend.”
His throat bobs with the force of his swallow. “I’m not the man you think I am,” he says bluntly. “I made bad decisions. That doesn’t make me a bad person.”
“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
He’s aged considerably in the last few years. His face is paler, gaunter, but his potbelly looms over his belt and his patchy beard is streaked through with gray.
“I would like a chance to explain, though,” he adds. “If you’re willing to hear me out.”
I’m quiet for a moment. There’s no need to rush this. We’ve waited five years to have this conversation—an extra few minutes won’t kill anyone.
At least, probably not.
“You know, I think I will take a cup of coffee.” I pull out a chair and sit down at the round table.
Archie pours two mugs and joins me. I watch as the black liquid sloshes over the edge of the rim when his hands tremble.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me why you did what you did,” I say, taking the cup from him. “And I’m hoping to God you won’t say it was something as petty as ‘more money.’”
The guilty shimmy of his eyes tells me everything I need to know.
