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Who was that man?
But more importantly, who are Desmond and Lyric?
Desmond spins me around as we round a corner, out of sight from the others. His movements are swift and demanding. My back meets the brick wall, but his hand cushions my head. His dark eyes dip to my lips as he presses his body against mine. His hand glides from the back of my head down to my neck, his touch gentle yet possessive.
“You’re quite the nosy kitten, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
Does he really expect me to answer?
“Where is Milo?” he asks, throwing me off guard.
It’s such an unexpected question, one that sweeps away my fear, anticipation, and every other thought. I blink up at the man who holds me captive, who just ended a life without flinching. He didn’t shout at me, merely scolded me gently for trailing him, and now his first question revolves around my brother’s whereabouts. Protective and possessive, he checks every box of those book boyfriends I’ve obsessed over for the past year.
“He’s at the school with Winston’s mom,” I whisper, a lingering sense of confusion still clouding my mind.
“You left him to spy on me,” Desmond states, pressing closer against my body. For a fleeting moment, I wish my clothes weren’t so thick, that my sweater and coat were thinner, so I could feel every contour of him against me.
Moistening my lips, I reply, “Yes.” My gaze locks onto his guarded eyes, searching for any glimpse of his thoughts or emotions, any hint of what’s churning within him.
“You never let him out of your sight, yet you just did. Why?” he asks, and I feel like there is more to the question.
“I knew he was safe and that the danger was out here, and…” I inhale his slight hiss of breath. “You assured his safety multiple times.”
Lyric, who had been silent until this point, suddenly speaks up. “Sara was right,” he mumbles through the bandana that covers his mouth.
“My therapist, Sara?” I ask, confusion creasing my forehead.
“Yes,” Desmond answers, his grip on me tightening, refusing to release its hold. “Lyric, join us back at her place.”
I attempt to turn my head to look at Lyric, but Desmond’s firm grasp prevents any movement. I hear Lyric’s departure more than I see it—his coat swishing softly and the faint sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.
“Who are you, Desmond Black?” I whisper, my curiosity overwhelming my restraint.
“It seems denying you won’t be an option,” he responds, leaning in until his lips graze the corner of mine. “Two years, Charlotte. Why now? Why do you choose to taunt me?”
I swallow, uncertainty lingering in the air. What is he really asking? I didn’t set out to taunt him. For the most part, during those years, I merely existed, navigating life’s currents and trying to keep our heads above water. I want to claim that I don’t understand what triggered this change, but that’s not true. The answer is obvious. “Custody,” I whisper, admitting that gaining custody of Milo just two weeks ago has shifted everything. That day, it was as if I woke up from a long slumber, realizing that I wasn’t truly living before. Now, I can live without fear.
Desmond grunts, his lips tracing a path from my cheek to my ear as he exhales. “I never thought you’d stay,” he admits, his breath warm against my skin. “After all, you never stayed in the last town.”
A retort forms on my lips, a question about how he knows that, but his hold on my neck tightens, silencing me.
“It’s my responsibility to know everything about everyone who resides in my town, Charlotte,” he asserts, pulling back slightly so our eyes can meet. It’s as though he’s searching for something hidden in my gaze, some elusive thought or acknowledgment.
“And what have you uncovered about me?” I challenge, my curiosity piqued about the depths to which he delved into my past. What did he unearth there? I don’t have any hidden secrets, no proverbial closet in which to stash skeletons. All I possess in my history is the trauma that snow-covered day left at my feet.
“Charlotte Eloise Hart. Born on May twentieth, nineteen ninety-nine, to Samantha Jameson and Cameron Casso. Your mother was seventeen, your father twenty,” he recites. His knowledge cuts deep, revealing details even I sometimes forget. “You changed your surname from Jameson to Hart when Anthony Hart, your stepfather, adopted you at the age of two. Your upbringing was in Yonkers, New York. A bit of a nerd. You graduated in the top ten percent of your class. You started at NYU, but your college journey lasted only a semester before the tragic loss of your parents. Then, you gained guardianship of Milo Allen Hart.”
His narration forces memories to surface, some I’d pushed aside. The details he knows astound me—my transient life, the struggles, the losses.
“You spent that first year in Yonkers before relocating here, selling everything to cover your parents’ funeral expenses,” he continues, his voice rough. “You drove across New York with a three-year-old in tow. Later, you settled in Lisbon for three years until extenuating circumstances led you to our town. Milo spent his sixth birthday in the shelter I run. Sal directed you to the women’s shelter and offered you a job on the spot. You enrolled Milo in school the very next day, securing a home by the week’s end. Again, through Sal.” His voice carries a weight, a mix of understanding and inquiry. “Is there anything I’ve missed, kitten?”
Tears gather in my eyes, a rarity since Sal’s passing, and I’m consumed by a sense of shame. Among the myriad of facts he recited, though, one stands out, a nagging puzzle piece. “How do you know who my biological father is when I don’t even know?” I ask, my voice quivering.
“That, Charlotte Hart, is my responsibility in this town,” he declares with an edge.
I can’t bear to meet his gaze, focusing on a chipped brick beside my head. My legs ache to flee, to fetch Milo and escape this web of intensity, but Lyric waits in my house—a stark reminder that leaving now isn’t an option.
“Look at me, Charlotte.” Desmond’s voice softens, coaxing me. I swallow the emotional lump lodged in my throat and finally meet his intense, dark gaze. “You’re angry,” he states.
