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I can tell he's trying to sound strong, but for just a second as he says 'that's kind of you', his eyes look lost.
“I miss you,” I say softly, which is what I feel the strongest. His brows draw together, just a little, and for a second I think he's going to hold out his arms and say he misses me, too. Instead he rearranges his mouth and folds his arms across his chest. “What can I do for you, Libby?”
I’m silent for too long—stung that this is the reception that I get. His lips tighten. “I said I would call you if I could, Libby. I haven’t had the time.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” I lower my voice, stepping closer, and Hunter retreats, taking a step backward into his boxy foyer. “You didn't hurt Sarabelle, and I don't get why you haven't told the FBI what's really going on.”
“What’s really going on?” he asks flatly.
I shake my head. “I thought you had people investigating. Your father, too.” All of a sudden, my eyes are swimming with tears. I try my best to blink them back.
I look at the floor, because there's nothing emotional about the floor, and that's when I see Hunter's ankle. There's a metal band around it.
I cover my mouth. “Oh my God! You have a tracker.”
He scowls, shuffling his foot a little bit behind him, and hot tears start to trickle down my cheeks.
He reaches to catch them, then drops his arm, like touching me would violate some rule. “Libby, please don't cry for me.”
I throw my arms around him. “Hunter—how?”
He folds his arms around my back and whispers into my hair. “I'm the only lead they have.”
I squeeze him harder, like the strength of my hug can fix this mess. “Tell them about Priscilla and Michael Lockwood, and their connection to Governor Carlson. Tell them what you know. I don't know the whole story, but I know there is one. I know your father doesn't have bad information.”
I feel him shake his head as my cheek is mashed against his chest. “You don't understand.”
I pull away and look into his sad green eyes. “So make me understand. I'm tired of being in the dark.”
Now he drops his arms off me and steps back, away from the light that streams through the windows of the door and into the darkness of the foyer. His eyes search my face as he brings his lower lip between his teeth. “Libby...some of what they have against me is true.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn't Sarabelle,” he says. “It's something else. You don't need to know the story, Libby.” But I do. My mind is racing. I remember what his father said. “Let me warn you, you may have to go farther than I did for you.”
“Did you do something bad when you were younger?”
His face hardens, and he looks out over my shoulder. I pull the door shut behind me and step forward to grab his hand. I pull him into the hall where Cross punched the wall that night what feels like two lifetimes ago. Looking up into his eyes, I can't believe the guilt I see.
“Hunter, talk to me. Please.”
His head snaps up, those green eyes flashing. “Libby, I can't. Don't you think I would if I could? You're the only person I want to talk to.”
“So talk to me.”
He shakes his head. His jaw is locked, his shoulders set. “I can't,” he says. “I won't.”
“But it's not a secret? The FBI knows it happened?”
He grits his teeth, looking stoic. I take the answer as a 'yes'.
“Are you ashamed?” I ask. “Embarrassed? Please don't tell me that you think I'll judge you.”
He grabs my shoulders. The face I miss so much is tantalizingly close, only inches from mine. “Libby, please. You need to go.”
“No.” I’m tired of being sent away, dismissed, denied access to people I want, feelings I need. “I—I've never liked anyone the way I like you, Hunter. And I don’t want to have what's going on with us cut off before it even has a chance to start, all because of someone like Priscilla or that Lockwood guy. I can't let you get dragged further into this because you won't accept some freakin' help. I heard Dr. Bernard that day, and I heard her say you were in the right. She knows about this secret of yours, doesn't she?”
His brows are drawn up tight, his face set, harsh and sad and pessimistic.
