Chapter Forty-Eight
Nothing But the Truth
Siena, May 23-24, 2012, Dallas, TX
It was early morningwhen I stared through the window at the empty world. So there it was, my answer. I’d made a mess of things, and I was to clean it up. Hopefully without capture, bondage, and murder.
Breath held, I grabbed my phone. Ryan had not replied to my text. And why would he? He must have seen right through it—he was the one with the law degree. I released a long, shuddering sigh. It didn’t matter now. I’d find my way back to him—in disguise or otherwise.
Still, I never thought calling him would make me break out in cold sweat. But it wasn’t like he’d answer—
“I said not to contact me.” He didn’t sound angry, only resigned.
I suppressed a gasp. After six months of silence, his velvety baritone sounded almost unreal.
“We need to talk, Ryan.” My words emerged faint and trembling, not the effect I was going for.
He blew out a ragged breath. “Talk.”
“We need to meet.” I bit my lip so hard, I tasted blood.
“No, we don’t.”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
He scoffed. “I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone.”
Deafening silence. Breath held, I glanced at my screen.
“You’re wasting your time.” His voice was like a clock pendulum. “And mine.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Tomorrow, 7:00 PM. I’ll make the reservation.”
For a long moment, all I heard was his breathing.
“Hotel lobby.” He bit out. “I’ll text the address.”
I sank down on the couch and lifted my gaze heavenward. Thank you for answering my prayers. But a busy, impersonal hotel lobby?
“A restaurant.” I shot a glance at my phone, digging fingernails into my palm. “A civilized dinner, so we can talk.”
“Fine.” He ended the call, the word hanging in the air like a warning.
The next evening, after an obscenely long shower, I stood in my closet in Ryan’s favorite pink lingerie, staring at a row of dresses. Each one jolted a painful memory: a simple blue sheath I wore to our first date, a flowy yellow sundress he told me to take off when I brought him to my apartment, the little black number I donned on our third wedding anniversary. I settled on a burgundy jersey A-line with a scoop neckline—flattering but wholesome.
Right. I winced. Wholesome me.
I arrived too early, which gave me time for a glass of chardonnay. But it did nothing to stop my thudding heart and racing mind. Had he agreed to meet because he was ready to talk or only to secure his petitioner’s bona fides?
Time slowed to a torturous snail pace as I sipped my second glass, eyes glued to the phone. Certainly, there was no cause for alarm when he didn’t show up at 7:06 PM. Or at 7:09 PM. He was busy with work, of course, running a little late.
I checked my text with the restaurant’s name and address—no errors.
It was 7:21 PM when the waiter came by for the third time to confirm someone was joining me.
“Yes,” I squeezed out, stomach clenching to the point of pain. “He’s just running late.”
Ryan was many things but never a coward. He wouldn’t stand me up. Would he? I stared at my phone screen. Would he think me desperate if I called him? Fingers cold and stiff, I put the phone down. Calling him wouldn’t change a thing. It wasn’t my unconcealed despair that made him lose all respect for me.
I never knew a text chime could give me a stomach cramp.
Running late.
The speed with which my misery drained out of me made me dizzy. I closed my eyes and breathed. He was coming.
It was 7:37 PM when he finally approached the table, silent and rigid in his black slacks and gray shirt. He waved to the waiter—no hello, no apology. No wedding ring.
“Whiskey, neat.”
“Yessir,” the waiter straightened with such eagerness, he may have pulled a muscle.
I never fathomed my throat would close from looking Ryan in the eye while asking a simple question.
“How are you doing?” I swallowed a hard lump.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes dark and heavy. “Talk.”
I shrank away from this pitiless command, pinched my lips to keep them from trembling. It was hopeless. He hadn’t only lost respect for me. He hated me.
My chest collapsed on itself. I pressed my clenched hands to the aching void above my stomach. I couldn’t breathe, let alone talk.
He drew his eyebrows together, rubbed the back of his neck, straightened. “Go on, I’m listening.” His words came out hoarse and low.
I nodded, dropped my hands into my lap. “Remember when...when you worked through the night...while I was still in D.C.?” I choked out.
He glared ahead, cold and mute.
I had nothing to lose now. I had everything to lose now. “When you said that you...” I wiped at my burning eyes—they wouldn’t stop, “that you missed me so much you could smell my perfume on your pillow?”
The waiter brought whiskey and took our order: steak for Ryan and marinara rigatoni—the first item on the menu—for me.
Ryan drained his glass before the waiter finished and requested another.
“It was my actual perfume you smelled,” I breathed as the waiter walked away.
Ryan tightened his jaw and put down his empty tumbler.
“I flew in that night—to surprise you.” I took a tremulous sip, put the glass down. “I brought a bottle of wine and some candles, and...ordered dinner. I set everything up and waited for you.”
He studied me, silent and immobile. Maybe that flicker of concern was for having to deal with a messy divorce.
“I waited for you in bed all night. That’s why you could smell my perfume. But you never came home, so I tossed everything into the garbage chute in the morning and flew back.”
I hugged myself, fingers digging into my arms. Hearing myself convey this in such factual, chronological manner made me sound rash at best and reckless at worst.
Ryan’s only giveaway was his unblinking stare.
“I thought you were—” I bit the inside of my lip; my rationale only highlighted my pathetic insecurities, “with...with Vivian.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“That’s what I thought,” I mumbled. “I found her gift and...that book in your kitchen.”
He raised both eyebrows. “What book—?”
“‘Chasers,’ a guide for making women obsess over you...or something—” I met his eye. How would he explain that?
He squinted, blinked. “That? A stupid gag gift from the office.”
The sound that emerged from me was a wretched mixture of a sob and a “no.”
He grabbed his whiskey refill from the waiter. “A week after I got that...flash drive, I took Emma’s advice and made an appointment with Arianrhod.” His gaze turned cold and hard. “I landed on the day the news had reached him. Of her marriage. To his mortal rival.” His eyes blazed with such wrath that for a heartbeat, he became the man who lived long ago. “It was a very bad day for him.”
“Ryan—”
He raised a hand, every muscle in his face strained. “I kept asking myself how could you—she—do that to him? To them? Then, it dawned on me. It’s always been in you. It’s who you are.”
He dropped his hand in the deadly stillness that fell.
I pressed myself into the unyielding spindle frame of the chair, opened my mouth. Closed it.
Stiff as a board and white as a ghost, he glared at the table.
“I—” I tried to put down my glass, but my hand shook so hard, I spilled the remaining wine all over my lap.
The waiter brought our food. Ryan picked up his fork and knife, and I studied the lumpy pile of overcooked pasta on a worn yellowy plate. It might be easier now that he knows.
“I need to tell you about Connor Reat—” My fingers found the sodden patch of my dress under the table, dug into it. “After I returned from Dallas, when I thought you’d been with Vivian—”
He gave an impatient shake of his head.
“Austin was still with mom, so I went back to work, to Connor Reat’s residence.” The words erupted in a rush. “I didn’t think he’d be home—he was never there—” A cold trickle of sweat rolled down my spine. I bit into my trembling lip. “He asked me to join him for dinner. I was really upset because I thought—”
“I never gave you reason to think that,” Ryan squared his shoulders, a deep groove etched between his eyebrows. “Not then, and not now.”
“I had a lot of wine, baby—” The word rolled off my tongue, unconscious like a reflex.
His gaze iced over as it swept my face.
“Ryan—” The name came out forced and strangled. “I had a lot of wine, Ryan—too much.” I stabbed a fork into my disgusting rigatoni. “Maybe four glasses—” The fork slipped from my hand, landed smack in the middle of my pasta. “I’m not even sure, and a whiskey before...I was...”
He put down his fork and knife and scrubbed both hands across his face. His elbow brushed against the knife; it slid off the table, hanging precariously off the edge, blade out.
“Ryan—!”
Fast as lightning, he shoved it away. It landed in the center of the table, between us.
He stared at it, then picked it up and placed it beside his plate. “Christ...”
Very lightly, I reached to touch his hand.
He snatched it away. “Go on.”
“Okay.” I grabbed the sides of my chair. “He suggested after dinner that I stay in one of the guest rooms.” My fingers came hard against the wood. “It seemed like a good idea because...I wasn’t in any state to go anywhere. But he took me to...his master instead.” I cleared my throat, tugged at my neckline, every word a needle under my nails. “I didn’t realize that’s where he was taking me...not right away.”
Ryan’s lips tightened into a flat line of a derisive scoff. “Really? Wow.”
I shook my head. “No...that’s not what I’m saying.” The truth, blunt and uncompromising. Scalding and brutal. But only the truth.
“I’m not blaming him,” I squeezed out. “He did nothing against my will, but I left before he...after he...” The truth hurt like a thousand lashings.
“Look at me, Siena.”
He never called me by my full name anymore. How alien and impersonal it sounded. I glanced at his chest. I couldn’t meet his eye.
“Look at me, goddamn it.” The unconcealed pain in his voice prompted me to meet his gaze. It was as dark and stormy as an ocean on a winter night.
“You wanted to talk? You’ll tell all. Step by step. Go ahead, I’ve got all night.”
I stared at my limp pasta, a sudden urge to run almost uncontrollable. The truth? I’ll pass out before I tell it all.
“I made a mistake, Ryan. An awful, stupid, drunken mistake.” I twisted the over-starched napkin in my hands. There was no way at all I could tell the entire truth. None, whatsoever. “I wanted to pay you back for Vivian, which was...I know...but I left. Believe me, I left right after.”
“After what?”
“After what you’d heard.”
“Which was what?”
“I...he...” No. I couldn’t say it. I could not.
Ryan clenched his jaw. “He—?”
“Okay. He...ah...” The chardonnay rose to my throat. I was going to be sick. “He only...it only...” I licked my lips. “It only went as far as him...” I could barely hear myself.
“Step by step. Like I told you.” His expression turned implacable.
I shook my head, blinked away tears.
“You had dinner. Next.”
I breathed into my sweaty, cupped palms. “Ryan, I can’t.”
“Sure, you can.”
“He started kissing me, and I didn’t...I wanted to...pay you back...God...” I dropped my face into my hands.
“I’ll ask questions.” Ryan peeled my hand from my face, the one with the Claddagh ring. He held it, eyes trained on my face. “You know you’re telling me, one way or another.”
An unmistakable new soft note in his voice didn’t match his stony expression. I took a shuddering breath. We were talking. Touching even—his hand warm and steady on mine. And he wasn’t leaving.
I stared into his eyes. Don’t make me say it. I would give everything not to utter this filth.
“First question.”
“But...” I dropped my gaze, dug my fingers into his. He took his hand away. “I just wanted to tell you why, and that we didn’t actually...do it...that it didn’t happen.”
I looked up to be met with the eyes of a federal agent in the interrogation room.
“How many times did the two of you make out?” The soft note was gone, replaced with a tone that was calm and even. Dispassionate.
“Twice.”
“Where?”
“In the hallway, on the way to the bedroom...” The answers were coming easier now. I was beginning to see how people break down in the small room under a cold, impersonal glare.
“And?”
He raised his voice a fraction, but it was such a heavy fraction, I answered without delay.
“And in the bedroom.”
“I’ll make it even easier. Yes or no questions only.” He drained his glass and gestured to the waiter for another. I’d never seen him drink so much and not get drunk. “Did he undress you?” His voice dropped, like something bubbling underneath.
The truth.I interlaced my fingers so tight, it hurt. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened. The veins stood out in his neck. I averted my eyes.
“Did you undress him? Look at me.”
“No.”
“Did he undress himself?”
“Yes, but only—” I wanted to say, “down to his boxers,” but Ryan interrupted.
“Did he fuck you?” He lifted his chin, his breathing shallow and ragged. He’d get up and walk out forever if the answer was yes.
I looked him in the eye. “No, he didn’t. I told you.”
He leaned in, eyes cold and hard. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Siena. Did you let him fuck you?”
“No, I didn’t.” I reached for my glass. It was empty. “I did not. I left.”
“Did you go down on him?” His voice was like a spring about to snap.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the waiter approach with Ryan’s whiskey. He put it down, then turned and walked away, his eyes the size of saucers.
“No! I told him to stop, and I left after that.”
“To stop what? You left after what?”
“That’s not a yes or no question,” I muttered.
“Did he go down on you?”
He’d have me confess my crime. I looked around the restaurant for escape, but the only way out was this self-inflicted torture.
I stared at the table, heart racing. There were exactly zero ways to obfuscate this bit of information.
The whole truth.“Yes, but I told him to stop when he began to take off his boxers, and he stopped.” I took a labored intake of breath. “And then, I left.”
“You told him to stop after you came.” He straightened, white as a sheet.
“I don’t remember...” Nothing but the truth. “Yes, I must have, based on the recording.” I swallowed bile. “It was a shock to me, too. I only remember thinking the whole thing was a mistake. I was heartbroken and...out of my mind. Why are you doing this, Ryan? How’s this going to help anything?”
He drained half his glass, put it down, unblinking. “You enjoyed yourself.”
I pressed my lips together. I’d incriminated myself enough.
“Did you enjoy it? Yes or no?”
“I drunk-cried the entire time. I thought you were cheating.” I touched his hand. “Please forgive me.”
“An open-ended question.” He didn’t take his hand away. “Why did you tell him to stop?”
“Because I realized that wasn’t the way to handle what I thought was your betrayal. I’m telling the truth, Ryan!”
He slumped, leaving his hand where it was. “I know you are.”
“I wish I could go back and undo it, stay home, not drink, leave after dinner...call you.” I sought his eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
He flagged down the waiter and gave him his credit card. Then, we sat in dead silence.
“Ryan...” I locked gazes with him. “There is something else I need to tell you about Connor Reat.”
The waiter returned with the credit card slip and my to-go box.
I eyed his diminishing form. “It might help explain my actions—a little bit.”
Ryan stood. “Enough.”
Heart thudding, I followed him out of the restaurant. Was that it?
“Where are you parked?” he said.
“A block away.”
He walked me to my car, mute and stiff. Acutely, I felt the passage of time. Only seconds left to salvage the little left of us. Then, we were at my parking spot.
“I...listen...” I grasped for words, frantic. “Ryan...” I couldn’t think of a single thing, only that I’d never see him again, except in divorce court.
I clutched the box with the awful pasta, trembling against my car door.
He took it from me. “I’ll toss this.” He wiped my tears with the back of his hand, solid and firm. So close. He was still here.
“Ryan...” I raised my hand to catch his, but it was already gone.
A memory of the meeting in the abandoned hunter’s hut south of Tyrone rushed through me, thick and vivid. I didn’t allow myself to think.
“Long ago, he forgave her after a...a chastisement,” I whispered, dizzy and clammy all over. “Whatever fits the crime, I agree to it, Ryan. If we can put it behind us. As we did then.” My face burned like a flame. My racing heart was Neave’s, not mine.
He raised both eyebrows. I stopped breathing.
“You’ve got your car key?”
I felt in my purse. “Yes.”
He flicked me a nod. Then, he walked away without a backward glance. A familiar, distant figure.
A moment later, he turned around the corner, and I couldn’t see him anymore.