Chapter Eight #2
Marcus’s gaze never wavered. “Kitchen, under the fridge.” The exact spot where I’d dropped the device I’d tried to plant.
“Strange place for something like that to appear, don’t you think?
Especially right after your visit.” He wasn’t accusing, just stating a fact.
If he was angry, his expression betrayed nothing.
Ice still flooded my veins. He knew. Or at least suspected.
My gaze darted toward the door, measuring the distance, wondering if I could make it before he grabbed me. As if reading my thoughts, Marcus shifted slightly in his chair, his posture relaxed but his position now subtly blocking my easiest path to the exit.
“I need to know if you’re in trouble,” he said, his voice so low I had to lean even closer to hear him.
“Whatever it is, I can help you. Protect you.” The offer hung between us, sincere and impossible.
My hands trembled harder, coffee sloshing over the rim of my cup onto my fingers. I didn’t feel the heat.
“You can’t,” I whispered, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded.
“Try me.”
I stared at him, at the calm in his dark eyes, at the stillness of his large frame.
The rain drummed against the windows, providing a soundtrack to my racing thoughts.
How could I explain Reeves and the threats, the fabricated evidence?
How could I admit what I’d already done?
Marcus seemed to sense my struggle. He leaned back slightly, giving me space to breathe, and changed tactics.
“In Terre Haute,” he began, his voice still pitched for my ears alone, “I learned to read people. Had to. When you’re surrounded by men who’d kill you for looking at them wrong, you learn to spot trouble before it spots you.
” He traced the rim of his cup in a slow, deliberate circle.
“You watch for tells. The way someone’s pulse jumps in their throat when they’re lying.
The micro-expressions that flash across their face before they can control them.
The way fear shows in the eyes before the brain even processes the danger.
” I swallowed hard, acutely aware of my own pulse hammering visibly at the base of my throat, of the cold sweat breaking out across my forehead, of every involuntary reaction my body was betraying me with.
“Most men in prison,” he continued, “they don’t know they’re about to snap until it’s already happening.
But their bodies know. I learned to recognize the signs before trouble started so I could get out of the way.
” His gaze dropped meaningfully to my fingers, which had begun tapping a nervous rhythm against the table.
“In prison, knowing who’s about to break can save your life. ”
The musician in the corner hit a discordant note, the sound jarring against the soft melody he’d been playing. Outside, a car horn blared, making me flinch. Every sound seemed magnified, every sensation heightened as adrenaline flooded my system.
“When I first got to Terre Haute,” Marcus said, “I was raw. Grieving and angry. Made me an easy target.” He pushed up one shirt sleeve slightly, revealing a thin, pale scar running along his forearm, different from the burn scar I’d noticed before.
“Got this my second week. Guy came at me in the yard. I didn’t see it coming because I wasn’t paying attention to the signs.
” I stared at the scar, physical evidence of the violence he’d survived.
My gaze traveled up to the other mark on his face, the one I’d touched that day in the rain.
“After that,” he continued, “I learned. Watched. Listened. Started noticing the patterns.” His voice remained calm, almost hypnotic.
My tongue felt thick, useless in my mouth.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Right now,” he said, his gaze holding mine, “you’re showing every sign of someone who’s cornered.
” As if to demonstrate, he reached across the table and gently covered my fidgeting fingers with one large hand.
The warmth of his skin against mine shocked and grounded me.
“I’ve seen fear like this before, Cora. Usually right before someone does something desperate. ”
He touched me gently but with firm pressure, his calloused palm rough against the back of my hand.
I stared at our hands, his so large it engulfed mine completely, and felt something inside me begin to crack.
The weight of secrets, of fear, of choices made under duress pressed down until I could barely breathe.
“You don’t understand,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the last word. Tears tracked freely down my cheeks now.
“Then help me understand.” His thumb stroked across my knuckles, a gesture so tender it made my tears come even harder. “Whatever happened, whatever you did, we can fix it.” The certainty in his voice made something twist painfully in my chest.
“It’s not that simple.” I spoke barely above a whisper, my voice stretched thin with strain.
“It never is.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, sad smile. “But I’ve got time. And I’m here to help you if you’ll let me.”
Marcus waited, his hand still covering mine, patient as always. He didn’t push, didn’t demand. Just sat there, offering silent support while the rain continued its steady drumbeat against the windows and café life continued around us.
My throat closed around the confession fighting to escape.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
I clutched his hand so hard, I feared I might hurt him.
I couldn’t seem to let go because, right now, Marcus’s touch was the only thing holding me together.
The pressure of his steady gaze, the weight of his offer of protection, the knowledge that I’d already betrayed him, all crashed down on me at once, overwhelming in its intensity.
“Marcus,” I started again, my voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the café, “I’m afraid.”
“I know,” he said simply. “But you’re not alone.” And just like that, the last of my resistance began to crumble. “I’m not here to hurt you, honey. I’m here to help you. Whatever it takes.”
My entire body began to shake, not just my hands now but a violent tremor that started deep in my core and radiated outward.
The words I needed to say jammed in my throat, forming a lump I couldn’t swallow past or breathe around.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading the fear that must have been written across my face in neon.
I opened my mouth, tried again to force sound past the blockage in my throat, but nothing came.
Just a strangled, desperate noise that didn’t even sound human to my own ears.
“Breathe,” Marcus said, his voice steady. His hand still covered mine, warm and anchoring, but it wasn’t enough to stop the trembling.
I stared at him, trapped between my impossible choices.
If I told him about Reeves, about the threats, about the device I’d already planted, would he help me or would I be signing my own death warrant?
If I said nothing, if I placed the remaining bugs as ordered, would I be able to live with myself?
I’d told Detective Mercer the truth when I said everyone at the compound treated me better than the police.
The weight of betrayal pressed down on my chest until I struggled with each breath.
If I’d been a stronger person, I’d have called up Detective Reeves and told him to shove those other two bugs up his ass.
But I was nobody. My parents might have clout, but I didn’t.
No matter what I did, I would be the loser in this story.
Behind Marcus, rain lashed the windows with renewed fury, as if the storm had been gathering strength just like the pressure building inside me. A flash of lightning illuminated the café, briefly turning everything stark white before plunging back into the warm, golden glow of the overhead lights.
Thunder followed, a deep, bone-shaking rumble that seemed to come from everywhere at once. I flinched, the sound too close to the roar in my own head.
“They made me do it,” I finally whispered, the words escaping in a rush of air that left me dizzy. “I didn’t want to.” I shook my head almost violently, holding on to Marcus’s hand like a lifeline. “I swear I didn’t want to.”
Marcus remained perfectly still, only his eyes moving as they searched my face. “Who?” he asked, the single word carrying the weight of promised retribution.
“Detective Reeves,” I said, his name bitter on my tongue. “And his partner. Mercer. They -- they pulled me over yesterday. When I left the compound. They took me to the station and showed me photos they’d fabricated. Of me. With drugs and --” I broke off, unable to continue.
Marcus’ jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “They’re blackmailing you.” I nodded, the movement jerky and uncontrolled. My hands shook harder in his grip. “The kitchen,” he said. “That was you.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded again anyway.
Shame burned hot under my skin, making my face flush despite the cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.
“I didn’t know what else to do. They said they’d destroy my life.
That I’d go to prison for drugs and prostitution.
” The irony of confessing this to a man who’d served six years wasn’t lost on me.
“I’ve been homeless before. I can’t -- I can’t go back to that.
I found out a lot about myself when I left London to come back to the U.S.
on my own. One was that I could never be homeless for any length of time.
I did twenty-four hours in county lockup for vagrancy once and found out pretty quickly I’d never survive in jail either.
” I took a breath. “I doubt Reeves or Mercer know about my fears, but it felt like they knew what I was afraid of the most and exploited it.”