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“That’s never a good statement to lead with, don’t you know that?” She laughs but leads me to the couch and waves toward the seat next to her as she sits.
“My meeting today was... It was—”
“Gage,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Whatever it is, I’ll listen and try to keep my mind as open as I can because you’re being honest with me, and that’s something I respect people for.”
I nod, praying inwardly that she’s telling the truth, but knowing at the same time, this is going to be hard for her to wrap her head around.
“I’m a fixer,” I start.
“Like a handyman?” she asks. I know what she’s doing, she’s trying to break the tension in the room, and I adore her for it, but it’s not going to work.
“No.” I sigh. “I’m a fixer for the rich. It’s a business I grew up in. It’s been passed down for generations. Where there’s a rich man fucking up, there’s someone behind him with a vacuum cleaner,” I explain.
Her face reddens. She’s smart as a fucking whip, I’m sure she knows where this is headed, or so she thinks.
“My first job was in Rochester, your hometown.” She drops my hand back onto my lap, moving backward, and it stings me like I’ve been stabbed with a fucking icepick.
“I was nineteen years old, and I’d been begging my father to let me start working at the family business. What I didn’t know, however, was how fucking dark and depraved he’d let the business become under his management. He’d been cleaning far dirtier messes than my grandfather ever did, and far more fucked-up cases than I’ll take on, too.”
She nods, taking in the info. “So, you were there that night?” she asks, closing her eyes and bracing for my answer.
“I was the one who set the fire.”
My first instinct is to grab for her, to comfort myself by touching her, but I resist, knowing it’s the wrong thing for her. So, I clasp my hands together and try my damnedest to do what’s right. No matter how bad it fucking hurts. Because I never meant to be a part of any of this. I need her to see that. I need her to know that I didn’t know the extent of my father’s work.
“Did you know? Did you know what was inside?” she asks, eyes still closed as a tear slips down her cheek. One tear to let me know how much I’ve broken what I swore never to hurt.
I’d fucking vowed it only hours ago, and yet look at what I’ve done.
I’m not worthy of her.
“No, I didn’t know. He didn’t let me out of the car until he’d done what he needed to inside. I wasn’t even paying attention to him either. I had music playing.” My admission makes me feel like a fucking tool, but I was young and stupid and as naive as they come.
“Carina,” I breathe, “how did you get out of that house?”
“I told you. Conner,” she says, finally opening her eyes.
“Was there smoke?” I ask. “Tell me if I set that fucking house on fire while you were inside.” My voice cracks, and she reaches for me.
“There wasn’t smoke. But he told me to be quiet. Said there were people in the living room. That I remember vividly. I’ve never questioned it, though. Because I’d heard people partying before Emery knocked me out...” Her eyes flick to mine. “Who was in the living room?”
“My father and his team. You said Conner smelled like sex, could he be the one who—who...” I can’t even finish my question. I don’t want to be having this conversation with her. I want to be snuggled up on this fucking couch, keeping her safe from men like them and feeding her popcorn. But the stars aligned and intertwined our past and present and now we have to deal with it.
“I don’t know. I’d never...I don’t know,” she says, chest heaving breaths of fitful fear.
I nod, pulling her to me slowly, watching for any resistance.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that I was there. I didn’t know I was a part of this,” I tell her. When she comes to me and falls into my arms, an inward wave of relief ambles through me.
“There’s more, isn’t there? It’s why you still feel rigid with worry?” she whispers up at me, eyes still damp from her tears.
I nod.
“Your sister was one of the bodies my father was charged with cleaning up. Amanda Eder died that night of an overdose, along with another boy. My father hid her death.” My eyes close as she gasps in shock.
“I thought she was missing all this time. I hadn’t seen her in months, long before that night. She moved out and never looked back,” she says, her mind working through confusion and set on grief.
“Well, she probably was on her own, before she ran into the likes of them,” I tell her, holding her as she breaks. Sobs leave her in quakes, and I do my best to hold her together against them.
