24. Ryan #3
Not the answer I wanted. “What happens to him?” I force myself to ask, though my pulse thunders in my ears.
Henri turns back to me, the polished steel of his cane gleaming as he taps it once on the floor. “That needn’t trouble you.”
“Sounds like murder,” I say, and I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice.
He lifts a single eyebrow. “I said it needn’t trouble you.”
“Usually when someone avoids the word that hard, it’s murder,” I insist, watching his expression for the slightest flinch.
Camille’s voice, ragged with fear and fury, cuts across the stale air. “Ryan, do not bargain with him.”
“I’m not bargaining.” I meet Henri’s gaze.
He studies me in the dim light. “You could come willingly.”
I tilt my head, trying to look casual, though every nerve ends in my fingertips. “And if I don’t?”
His smile collapses into something sad and patient. “I would prefer that you did.”
There it is. The unspoken truth. There’s no real choice here. I keep my face impassive and ask him, “What would I even do?”
Henri leans back, pleased—as if I’ve accepted a gift he’s presenting. “Whatever you wish.”
“I have a life.”
“In America?” He chuckles, a low, mocking sound that echoes. Okay, rude. “You have nothing left for you there.”
Camille shouts, “Enough! Do not speak to him like that.”
Henri’s gaze flicks back to Camille with cool detachment. “You have done little besides exploit that fact yourself.” Camille goes still. “You recognized his loneliness. You recognized his need for stability and attention. You used both.”
“Stop.” Camille’s voice has gone dangerously quiet.
Henri smiles. “I simply propose to provide those things more honestly.”
I see Camille’s shoulders sag. Shame floods his eyes when he meets mine.
I draw a slow breath. “Actually,” I say, my words slicing through the tension, “you’re wrong.”
He turns back toward me, curious. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“About which part?”
“Camille. He did use me.”
Pain flashes across Camille’s face. Henri looks pleased at it.
“But he admitted it.” The words come out softly, but they carry. Henri’s pleasure fades to blank calculation. I almost allow a small, triumphant smile. “And he gave the choices back.”
Henri’s face goes still—unreadable.
I press on. “He gave me keys to his house and his car and told me I could leave whenever I wanted. He let me stow the evidence he’s hunted for decades without asking where I put it. He let me tie his hands behind his back and order him around for days because I was pissed.”
One of the gunmen abruptly looks away.
Camille closes his eyes.
Apparently that detail did not need to be shared with the home invasion committee.
Henri’s face tightens. “So?”
“You keep saying you and Camille are the same,” I continue, watching Henri’s reaction.
His brow lifts. “And?”
“He learned how to let go.”
Henri’s lips flatten. “You are young.”
“Yep.”
“You mistake temporary guilt for change.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “But I’m allowed to make that mistake.”
His eyes hold mine, and something in them shifts—respect, perhaps.
I lean back against the sofa, arms spread. “My mistake. My choice.”
Henri’s features harden. “You would choose him?” he asks.
I let a faint smile ghost across my lips. “I’m still considering my options.”
Camille’s face contorts with pure outrage. I hope he hears the lie. I hope Henri never doubts it.
Henri relaxes—just the slightest slackening of tension. “Good. You need not decide everything tonight.”
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow.
“No.” His voice softens like velvet. “You have been through much. You must be tired.”
“Tired,” I echo, and the word tastes like truth.
“You could come with me now. Rest. Tomorrow, we shall speak properly.”
The domestic ease of it makes laughter bubble up in my chest, but I swallow it back. Tomorrow, as if this were a family matter.
“And Camille?” I ask, voice suddenly brittle.
Henri’s face remains polite. “Camille will remain here.”
I look down at the dark stain spreading across the floorboards. “Alive?”
Henri hesitates—just a heartbeat too long. I meet Camille’s gaze. He pins me with a warning. Don’t.
I turn back. “If I go with you, I want him alive.”
Henri nods slowly, studying me.
“Ryan…” Camille croaks out a warning, but I ignore him.
“Hm…” Henri decides, “He can live. Though I thought it would be rather amusing to wipe out the entire lot of them.”
Them. He talks about Camille’s family like mere dolls to play with.
I pretend to weigh it. In truth, I’m gauging the distance between us—his knee less than a foot from mine, his torso angled toward me.
Camille looks to me. I catch his eye for a heartbeat—too late, he sees something in me. A surge of triumph warms my chest.
I turn to Henri and smile before Camille can cry out. “So I live with you.”
He inclines his head. “Yes.”
“You’ll treat me like family.”
“As I should have years ago,” he murmurs.
I force my face to soften, vulnerable, an edge of genuine emotion in my tone. “I spent most of my life wishing someone would come get me.”
Camille’s expression shifts. Henri’s shifts too, but for different reasons. I fold my hands in my lap. “When things got bad with my father, I used to imagine someone finding out and deciding it wasn’t okay.”
Henri reaches out; his hand hovers a moment before settling on my shoulder, warm and real.
“Ryan,” he says softly, squeezing gently. “There should have been someone.”
The words find that old hollow place inside me with horrible accuracy—the one that never quite filled in.
I raise my eyes.
Henri smiles at me. His face has rearranged itself into something almost tender, the hard lines softened, the pale eyes warm. Grandfatherly. The smile of someone who has decided, after long deliberation, that you are worth keeping.
Like everything he is not.
“You won’t have to live that way again,” he promises.
I let my face do what it knows how to do. The careful softening around the eyes. The slight parting of the lips. I learned this from Paul—how to look like you are opening when you are closing.
Henri’s hand remains on my shoulder, heavy through the fabric of my shirt.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Camille goes utterly still. The blood has drained from his face. His jaw is set but his eyes have gone wide and dark. “Ryan, please.”
“Tell me what happens next.”