Chapter Ten
I put Lily to bed at just after eight and returned downstairs to find Sloane accepting the food at the door. I’d ordered Thai food, and at least half the menu is here since I didn’t know what Sloane would want, and she was less than helpful when I asked her what she liked.
I don’t mind, she’d said, I’ll eat anything.
“Help yourself,” I tell her, taking the bags and setting them on the counter so I can unload all the dishes from inside. “Plates are over there, above the coffee machine.”
I watch her move; her steps light as she crosses the kitchen and pulls out two plates.
Her shoulders seem tight, hiked up high, and I see the tension ticking in her cheek where she grinds her teeth together.
Watching her fall apart had something roaring up to meet it, as if her anxiety were a living, breathing entity that required fighting.
I wanted to know who hurt her.
Who did this to her?
But when it came time for her to leave, I found I wasn’t ready to let her go.
She’d been pale and on the verge of tears, and knowing she’d be alone didn’t sit well with me.
We may claw at each other’s throats more often than we don’t, but that didn’t mean I wanted her to suffer in silence.
I’d half expected her to tell me to fuck off and leave anyway.
I’d managed to get some work done on the case with Richard Taylor, and I have my system pulling data from Richard’s computer.
It takes time, and I don’t want to miss anything, so it’s still running now and will continue until it has taken everything.
There isn’t a single thing he can hide that I won’t find, and it’ll be a good start in figuring out who is behind the several missing women.
I’d called Malakai before I’d come up and let him know, but then I’d forgotten all about it when I found Sloane sleeping on my couch, my daughter nestled against her.
She’d looked peaceful, the tension that was usually present simply gone as she napped with my daughter.
She didn’t stir when I gently lifted Lily away from her so she didn’t disturb her when she woke, which would have been soon.
I would have left her there all night to sleep if I didn’t think she’d throw a fit about it come morning.
“Thank you,” Sloane finally speaks, her fork moving the food around on her plate.
“What for?”
“What you did for me during the panic attack.”
“No big deal,” I offer her a shrug, hoping to take away the heaviness.
“It’s hard,” She continues, so I pause, trying not to move in case she decides she doesn’t want to talk after all. “When they happen, it feels like I’m locked in a cage, and I can’t get to the key.”
She lifts a small mouthful of food toward her face but doesn’t eat it.
“And I’m fighting to get out while all the air is being sucked away. It can be quite violent, and if you hadn’t known what to do…” She shakes her head, “Anyway, thank you.”
I can’t take my eyes off her, but she doesn’t lift her own to mine. There’s so much pain under that carefully placed mask she wears, so many secrets. I don’t fucking like secrets. What is she hiding?
“Like I said,” I say, rising from the stool, “It was no big deal.”
Secrets get people hurt, fuck knows I have many that would flay someone alive if they knew.
It’s why I keep to myself, why I have always watched and remained quiet.
Not because I don’t like to be social or because I’m shy — that certainly isn’t the reason — but because if people knew the things I do, they’d run screaming for the hills.
Sloane is no different. She may be holding her own cards tight to her chest, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be all open arms if she ever finds out I kill people for a living.
And my daughter… what happens when she grows up and starts asking questions? I’ve seen things, experienced things that should have killed me. And I don’t want that for the child I didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago.
I know, deep down, that’s the reason I am struggling to bond with her, to truly make the connection. I may not have the violent tendencies my father had, but emotionally? Maybe I’m just as bad. That thought makes me sick.
Without another word, I turn and head from the room, ignoring Sloane when she calls my name. She leaves for the night five minutes after I lock myself in my bedroom, away from her, my daughter only on the other side of the wall, sleeping peacefully.
Pulling up the camera feed from the car, I watch her navigate the dark roads home until she pulls up to her house and cuts the engine.
But she doesn’t immediately get out and instead sits there with her hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.
Her eyes focus on the house ahead of her, and while she doesn’t make a sound, the subtle shake of her shoulders and the shuddering breath that leaves her lips tell me she’s crying.
She’s my nanny, my sister-in-law’s best friend.
I don’t need to care about her or her feelings.
But watching her cry silently, her sorrow contained to a few tremors, has my fingers curling into the palms of my hands.
I know how it feels. To feel like the entire world is continuing around you while everything inside crumbles, but nobody sees.
It makes you feel utterly alone.