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I take her hand and link my fingers with hers.
“The truth fucking hurts sometimes, and it’s scary…I don’t want to admit to you the shitty things I’ve done, the ways I’ve fucked up…because I worry you can’t love me back if you know who I really am. But you can’t love me at all if you don’t.”
Remi blinks and two tears run down either side of her face until they join together beneath her chin.
“Ask me anything, Remi. I’ll tell you the truth.”
Her lashes are wet and black around clear blue eyes the color of a sunlit sea. A sea I could float in forever.
She whispers, “What happened to Tom?”
“I was a jealous ass,” I say at once. “I picked a fight with him; I would have fought him.”
“I’m talking about the ceiling in the ballroom. Someone sawed through the joists.”
“I didn’t do that. I’ve never been inside your attic.”
Remi chews her lip, her expression troubled.
“What about Gideon?” she blurts.
“What about him?”
“Where is he?”
I pause, sensing that we’ve stepped onto shaky ground.
Remi sees my hesitation, and her expression sinks. She takes a half step back from me.
“You saw him, didn’t you?”
“I—“
“The truth, Dane. You promised.”
I close my eyes and take several deep breaths.
I won’t lie to Remi. Not anymore.
“Yes,” I admit. “I saw him.”
“Oh my god…” she whispers.
“But I didn’t hurt him! Fuck, Remi, I even showed him where you lived…and I was extremely tempted not to. I wanted to tell him to go back to New Orleans and stay the hell off my road, but I was trying not to be such a piece of shit anymore.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in her face, confusion and fear…fear of me.
I take a step toward her, and she flinches. I stop and stand still instead.
“I didn’t hurt him,” I repeat. “I haven’t hurt anyone.” I jerk my head in the direction of the sheriff and his fallen deputies. “Except those assholes back there.”
“I need to ask you one last question…” Remi’s lips tremble.
I don’t know what she’s going to ask, but I’m determined to answer honestly, no matter what it costs me. There’s no other chance for trust between us.
“How did your son die?”
The pressure on my chest is instant and crushing, and the temptation to lie is a black wind howling in my ears. I don’t want to speak that truth—I don’t even want to remember it.
