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“I’m sorry, please continue, sweet boy.”
I don’t know if I’m more annoyed that she called me a boy or that I was sweet again. I’m neither of those things, and I’m about to cut her bedtime story short by shoving my cock down her throat until I pass out from the meds.
“This is the last time you interrupt me,” I threaten, gripping her hair and giving it a slight tug. “Got it?”
She tries nodding, but I hold her head still. “My lips are sealed.”
They better be.
“Anyway, I brought her yogurt—a lot of it. It was the first time I’d ever seen her cry. I knew then that I would spend the rest of my life making her happy. She’d done so much for me; it was the least I could do. So, I started with the person I believed made her cry the most—my father.”
My stomach clenches. I’ve never shared this with anyone, not even with Enoch. “I started asking questions, meeting with the teens my age, seeing if their mothers had shared anything about their fathers. I was able to piece together enough information that led me to a contracted groundskeeper—”
“That’s the guy you asked me to find, wasn’t it?”
Did I not ask her to stop interrupting? “Yes. It was.”
Neither of us commented that she could never provide his name since I was arrested the night she was supposed to give it to me.
“I broke into the administrative office the next night and couldn’t find any records for groundskeeping.”
She gasps. “Those administrative fuckers destroyed them!”
I nod. “I thought so, but I never got to ask since the very next day, the Hanson House was nothing but a pile of ash.”
Reese sits up and holds my eyes. “You asking questions did not lead to your mother’s death.”
She’s wrong. My mother kept my father a secret for a reason, and I opened the portal to hell and let the demon back in.
“You wanted to know why I didn’t tell you about my dairy allergy.” I place my palm on her cheek. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or question your devotion. I simply don’t ever want you to be without because of me.”
If she ever needed proof of how much I love her, this would be Exhibit A.
Reese
Thinking I had killed Robert doesn’t feel as bad as sneaking out of Van’s window. It’s early Thursday morning, just as Blake requested, and I’m running across the grassy hills of Eden, toward the gate, where I will proceed to walk a mile, maybe two—just far enough so the Uber driver can pick me up without Tennyson or Simeon detecting my escape.
In all honesty, it’s not like Eden is a true prison. But for some reason, Tennyson likes to comb the grounds at night. It’s like he’s watching for someone or is overly paranoid of burglars. I’m unsure, but I won’t repeat my mistake. I know Tennyson is out here now, and I’m prepared.
The air is calm and cool in the wee hours of the morning as I approach the gate, seemingly undetected. I pause and look to the left and then the right, ensuring I wasn’t followed. So far, so good.
I make it about a quarter mile down the street before a car approaches that I know is not my Uber driver. The blacked-out paint, rims, and low beams tell me the driver of this car wants to go undetected.
I slip off the shoulder of the road, heading toward the fields in case I need to run. I don’t know where I would go because it’s nothing but endless hills and open pastures. But it’s better than being chased by a serial killer.
The car pulls to a stop beside me, and I’m readying my muscles to sprint for the race of my life when I hear a familiar voice. “Well, well, well. Look who we have here. Someone’s going to be in trouble.”
I whip around and see messy, dark hair and fathomless eyes that look void of anything peeking from the window.
Shakespeare.
My heart sinks to my toes. It’s not just Tennyson that walks these hills at night. Shakespeare does, too.
“I couldn’t sleep.” I lie. “I was going for a walk.”
A dark brow, illuminated by the car’s interior lights, rises. “Outside of Eden?” he asks sarcastically.
At this point. I know I’m caught. There is no way Shakespeare won’t tell Van I was out here. The best thing I can do is mitigate the damage. I need to meet Blake so I can talk to the chief. Van and I will never be able to move on if I can’t prove that it wasn’t me who turned him in that night. He may love me, but he doesn’t trust me. And love and trust go hand in hand in a healthy marriage.
