I hold up my hands. “Fine, fine. Continue.”
He takes another breath, his eyes focused on the darkening sky.
“Rosalind’s stepdad was a piece of shit who … abused her.”
My gut twists, and I let out a horrified gasp, but Saint continues before I can utter a word.
“He started when she was a kid, shortly after he married her mom. She claimed he never full-on raped her, but anyone with a brain could tell from the way she described things that it was escalating to that point. She … she never said anything to me about it. Told me I had too much shit on my plate.”
The way he grits his teeth when he tells me that last part makes me shiver all over and I can’t help but wonder what he means. “Saint, I—”
“So, she told Liam about it after they started going out, and he lost his goddamn mind.”
I’ve seen flashes of Liam’s temper, though he was always careful to walk away from situations before things escalated too much. “What did he do?” I murmur, although I’m pretty confident I already know the answer.
Saint still doesn’t look at me when he answers, “He killed the bastard, and then I helped him make it look like an accident.”
I’m surprised by how calm I feel. A normal person would understandably freak out over the revelation that one of their kind-of friends murdered a man, and that their kind-of boyfriend/fuck-buddy helped him cover it up. A normal person would be horrified by this.
But I’m not a normal person, so I just sit there, staring at Saint.
“I see. So that’s how you both knew what to do with Jon Eric.”
“More or less.” Saint glances at me at last. “You’re surprisingly chill about it.”
I nibble my bottom lip as I contemplate what to tell him.
“I’m pretty familiar with death, purposeful or otherwise, as you well know.”
His lips turn up into a smirk. “That you are, little masochist. That you are.”
Silence falls between us again, and I wring my hands nervously as I determine what I should say next. When I do speak, I surprise the hell out of myself.
“I set that fire in Georgia,” I blurt out.
Saint’s thick brows shoot for his hairline.
“The cops were heading over to raid our place and my mom told me to get rid of her shit, so I set it all on fire. I didn’t know James would show up. I didn’t think anyone was around when I did it.”
“Fuck,” he murmurs, and I flinch, instantly wondering if I should’ve told him. It was just that his secret was so … devastating.
Yet, he shared it with me anyway.
He doesn’t say anything else for a long time, and I begin to worry that I’ve freaked him out. Shit. That’s exactly what I was afraid of. It’s too much. No one should ever know the truth.
His hand wraps around my wrist and he tugs on my arm, urging me over to his lounger. I stand and he grabs my hips to position me so I’m straddling his lap. I grasp his shoulders and gaze down at him.
“Mallory?”
The softness of his voice makes me tense all over.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me who killed Jon Eric.”
His question shouldn’t surprise me like it does. It’s kind of the main point of me being here, isn’t it? I consider my options carefully. If I don’t tell him, he’ll likely keep nagging me until I eventually spill everything, which may be way too much. Telling him doesn’t guarantee he won’t dig for more, though.
It might earn me a short reprieve, however.
Releasing a breath of defeat, I murmur, “Ghost.”
His grip tightens around my hips.
“Thought so,” he snarls. “How do you know that guy, anyway?”
That I’m definitely not going to tell him. From what I understand, no one knows Nora is alive, and she wants to keep it that way. She especially doesn’t want the Angelles to find out. As much as I hate her, I fear her just a little bit more, and I’m not going to be the one to spill her secret and reveal my true identity in the process.
I tighten my lips and shake my head.
Saint’s brow furrows and it’s clear he’s disappointed and a little bit irritated.
He doesn’t push the issue, though.
“Fine,” he says. “I suppose that’ll do for now. Don’t think you’re getting off completely, though. One way or another, I promise to find out the rest of your secrets. No matter how many times we have to repeat this weekend.”
That sounds more like a promise than a threat, and the fact that I don’t mind that idea at all terrifies me.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, he whispers something that makes my chest feel light. “I really am sorry, Mallory. For … everything.”
Deciding we both could use a distraction, I cup his face in my hands and lean down to kiss him. I think I stun him, as I’m not often the aggressor in our hookups, but he relaxes after a moment, and all other thoughts and distractions melt away as we become lost in each other.
Monday morning arrives too soon, and we’re up at sunrise to make it back to campus in time for class. We don’t talk the whole drive, and I have a sick feeling in my stomach that everything we did and shared this past weekend will mean nothing in the long run. I’m scared that nothing will really change, and that I’ll have to go back to hating Saint.
He parks outside of my building, but neither of us make a move to get out and separate. Maybe he’s worried like I am?
The silence becomes suffocating and awkward, and I know I need to go, but I can’t with so much up in the air between us.
I turn to look at him and ask something I’ve asked before, “What are we, Saint?”
He meets my stare and seems to think about it for a while.
“Complicated.”
Frustrated, I carve my fingers through my hair. “You say that about everything.”
“Because it’s the fucking truth.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, or how to process the disappointment twisting in the pit of my stomach. All I know is that I don’t want to be complicated. Everything else in my life is already hard enough.
Without saying a word, I turn from him and climb out of the Range Rover. He doesn’t stop me or try to talk to me further, but we stare at each other once I’m on the sidewalk for a long moment before he drives away. I watch his car disappear across campus before I force myself to go into my dorm building and up to my room.
When I open the door and step over the threshold, I freeze.
What. The. Fuck.
The place has been trashed. My bedding is shredded and tossed across the floor. The dresser drawers have been yanked out and dumped, and my antiquated laptop is broken in half. The mirror above my vanity is shattered.
Dumbfounded, I step into the disaster and scan my eyes over my surroundings. Who the fuck would do this?
Who do you think?
My eyes land on a piece of paper taped to the frame of my destroyed mirror. I pick my way through the wreckage and grab it. All that’s written on it is an address, and this Sunday’s date.
Sure enough, the note is signed Mom.
9
The next couple of days are a blur. I’m so distracted by my upcoming meeting with Nora, I can’t focus on anything else.