43. Samson
SAMSON
The door to her guestroom is open, and she’s sitting on the bed wearing a robe I don’t recognize. It’s probably a part of the wardrobe I had brought in for her.
Her shoulders are rigid, and she’s staring at her phone. When she sees me, she raises her eyebrows. “I need to go out,” she says.
“Where do you need to go?” I ask.
“Out.”
I darken my gaze. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
My own words turned back on me. I suppose I deserve that. I walk inside the guestroom and close the door, blocking it. “First of all, you’re not going anywhere dressed like that.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” She walks into the closet, grabs black stretch pants and a white sweater. She heads into the en suite bathroom and emerges five minutes later, clothed, with some lipstick on and her hair pulled into a ponytail. She puts on her boots.
“Ready?” she says.
“No.”
Her breathing doesn’t change. “I want answers, and this is how I’m going to get them.”
“And you’re going alone?”
“No.” She pauses a moment. “Unless you get in my way.”
I hold her gaze for a second longer than I should. Then I step aside. “Where?” I ask.
“Someone who knew him.”
Him.
Not Halstead.
But it’s there. I hear it.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s get in the car.”
The place she takes me to isn’t far. It’s older, the kind of place that’s been left alone long enough to become invisible.
I kill the engine.
She’s already out of the car.
I follow.
The porch creaks under our weight, and the door opens before we knock. An older man stands there.
He looks at me first. Narrows his eyes. Then he looks at her.
And something shifts.
He knows her. Or he thinks he might.
“You here for something?” he asks, staring at her.
“I need information.” Delaney clears her throat. “About Victor Halstead.”
Nothing about the old timer shows surprise. A moment passes. Then—
“I figured someone would come asking eventually,” he says.
“Then answer,” I say.
He ignores me. I’m not used to being ignored.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says to her.
“I need answers.”
He tilts his head. Pauses. Then, “You’ve got his eyes.”
Say what? I steady myself. I know better than to react to the surprising and unexpected. I’ve been taught well.
I wait for her reaction. Her shock. But she doesn’t move.
That’s all I need.
Something cold slides into place.
“You want to explain that?” I say.
The man finally looks at me. “Don’t need to.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You do.”
He shakes his head. “I knew him a long time,” he says. “Long enough to recognize what he left behind.”
I go rigid as I look at Delaney.
At her eyes.
Those silvery blue orbs that mesmerized me the first time I saw her at the club, sitting there at the bar, watching me.
And now—
I see it.
Or maybe I’m looking for it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never unsee it. They’re Victor Halstead’s eyes. How could I ever forget them? I was the last thing they ever saw.
“Delaney,” I say.
No response.
She’s still looking at the man.
Not at me.
Not at anything that would make this real.
“You want to tell me what that means?” I push.
She turns toward me. Slowly. Achingly slowly. Her expression is locked down.
I regard her. Those eyes that have gazed into my own, those lips I’ve kissed.
I take a step forward. Close the distance. “Who the hell are you?”
“No one,” he says.
I already know who he is. I never don’t know what I’m walking into.
I turn fully to her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Nothing.”
Another lie.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“That.”
“Be specific.”
I step closer so there’s almost no space between us. “You tell me right now, Delaney. Because even I can see that you have his fucking eyes.”
The man watches. He seems like he expected whatever this is to go exactly as it has.
“You should go,” he says.
Not to me.
To her.
“Some things don’t belong on a porch.”
She nods, turns, and walks off the porch.
I stand there for a second too long and then I follow her.
She’s not ready to level with me yet.
I guess I deserve that.
But I know now why she’s pushing so hard.
This is personal to her.