I thought about this woman curled against my side. Sloane’s mysterious charm had literally stunned me the night we met. Her skill and talent and sense of justice mirrored my own in a way that was tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure. And combining all of that with this—this softer, more vulnerable woman buried behind her own barricades, well…
What was I to do except want her with a desire I’d never known possible?
“No,” I said. “Whether I’ve met a woman like that is another story.”
Her fingers left my collar, grazed the un-bruised side of my jaw. I felt that seeking touch radiate throughout my body. “What would you do if you met that woman?”
“I’m not sure,” I said quietly. “Perhaps steal her business card to keep her attention.”
Her gentle laughter against my chest set my heart ablaze. A moment later, the storm moved over us, thunder growing more subdued.
I felt the relief infuse in her limbs, felt her muscles begin to relax. After a long few minutes, Sloane unfurled herself from my embrace. She wore a giant shirt, legs bare, braid messy.
She was so fucking pretty.
Her legs stayed close to mine, but she kept our upper bodies apart, which was a good thing. “When I was seven, my parents left me alone, overnight, in this motel during a thunderstorm. We were staying in the Midwest, and all night the weather channel was reporting a possible tornado touch down. Green skies, hail. The electricity went out, and rainwater came in through the shitty bathroom window. I was little, and all alone, so I spent the night terrified a tornado was going to suck me right up. That I was going to die.”
I watched her closely, grateful to receive this story and already pissed her family had left her there. “Where the hell were your parents, Sloane?”
“They were out, I guess,” she said, distracted. Until she caught my eye as lightning flashed. She let out a long, steadying exhale. “My parents are con artists. Grifters. I was a con artist too, until I escaped when I was seventeen with the help of my high school teacher, Mrs. Oliver.”
It was a challenge to neutralize my expression. The full truth of her unconventional childhood didn’t surprise me as much as it devastated me. Yet the puzzle pieces tumbling together made sense: her lack of community, her real loneliness, her stalwart independence, her charm.
“Did your parents use you for certain cons?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, voice soft. She was quiet again. I sat there, our legs entwined, and let her sit with her past. “Wasn’t until high school that I realized not all children had to help their parents earn a living the way that we did. By lying, by cheating. I literally did not know that we were strange or that my home life was so unconventional.”
“How much school did they let you have?” I asked.
She tilted her head, braid tumbling to the side. “Limited. I’d go in three-month-long stretches in whatever town or city we were stuck in. Then I would try and teach myself when we were on the run. My junior and senior years were my first consistent schooling, but I was still behind my other classmates.”
I had so many questions. Instead, I sat quietly. Waited. Eventually she said, “It’s why I’m a good pickpocket. Children have small and nimble fingers.”
Fury built in my veins like the clouds outside. I stifled it, again. We would have time for her to tell me the types of criminal acts her parents had forced her to endure. Tonight was about thunder and lightning and the sudden violence of storms.
“What happened when your parents came back that next morning after they left you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “They probably just told me to shut—”
Every muscle in my body stretched taut. “They told you to what?”
“To stop talking,” she amended. “Kids have nimble fingers, but at the end of the day, my parents weren’t interested in any of the other aspects of me being their daughter.”
Another head tilt, staring at the rain outside. Watching for the next lightning strike.
“My existence was absolutely, 100% a mistake and an accident. I just think they discovered quickly how much more sympathy, how much less suspicion, we have of parents with children. And we never suspect children of wrongdoing. So.” She shrugged. “Sloane Argento is the name I was given when I was born, but I’ve also had many, many others, been many, many others.”
“And Mrs. Oliver, your teacher?” I asked. “How did she get you out?”
A genuine smile lit her face. “Mrs. Oliver—Debra—helped me a lot my junior year, saw potential in me when I was used to pretty much being ignored. By my senior year, I knew I couldn’t keep doing what my parents were asking of me but had no viable options to leave. I’m sure my parents have biological family somewhere. I’ve never met them, though.”
No friends, no family, no parents. Her skittishness towards meeting Codex made more sense now—the fact that this woman felt like she could open up to me, a near stranger, was evidence that this secret of hers was a true gift and I’d need to receive it wisely.
“I told Debra my story, and she took me in that last year. Helped me report my parents to the police. They’re technically considered on the run, but I’ve heard nothing about their whereabouts in ten years. I don’t really care, to be honest. I don’t consider them to be parents so much as two criminals that dragged me around.” She peered out the window one last time. The rain was slowing, gentle against the windowpane. Almost soothing now. “Debra was the one who helped me get my GED, get that full ride to NYU. She changed my life.”
“And where is she?” I asked.
Another smile. “She and her husband and their three dogs moved out to Colorado a few years back. We call each other once a week. I guess…” A pause. “I guess she’s my family. Actually, Humphrey reminds me of her. They’re both so sure of their place in this world. You’re the only other person I’ve ever told, besides Debra.”
“And I won’t tell a soul,” I said, voice firm.
“I know,” she said. “Besides, if you did, I’d track you down. I am a private investigator, after all.”
“I enjoy being tracked by you, as you recall,” I said.
Her smile was just for me this time and just as dazzling. I was more than tempted to keep asking her questions, keep peeling back the intricate layers of that captivating life of hers. But she and I had bared too much of our souls already lately. And if Sloane was like me, she probably felt out of sorts and exhausted. I didn’t want to push her, push us, into vulnerability so deep, and so uncharted, we couldn’t find our way out.
There was another flash of lightning, another threatening roll of thunder. She closed her eyes. “Must be coming back.”
“We’ll keep the lights on,” I promised. “And I’ll stay up with you.” I grabbed the remote from the side table, flipped the television on. “I’ve heard Love Island is basically streamed twenty-four hours a day in London.”
The screen winked on and revealed a trio of couples running down a beach. She let out a laugh, looking delighted.
“You’re not tired?” She was getting comfortable back against the headboard.