Page 68 of Art of Sin

30annihilation

“And the menwho did this to you... they were never caught?”

I gaze down at Gideon’s fingers, entwined with mine and resting on my thigh. He has broad, graceful hands, fingers strong and lean and brushed ever so lightly with freckles. Calloused fingertips stroke my palm. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it—offering physical comfort—or what it means to me. The last time someone took this kind of care with me…

I turn my mind forcefully to the present, to this conversation and the lies I’ve woven. If I look Gideon in the eye, I’m afraid he’ll see through the narrative I’ve given him, so I continue staring at his hand holding mine.

As far as Gideon is concerned, Nate and I were abducted under an overpass in San Bernardino by men who drugged us and held us captive in their basement for several months. It was an all-too-common fate for street kids—being kidnapped and sold into sex slavery. We couldn’t fight them or escape because they shot us up with drugs daily. But one day, a concerned neighbor called the police when she heard yelling, and the next, we were being treated for dehydration and weaned off opiates in the hospital.

Daddy taught me that the key to a perfect lie was to include just enough truth to confuse your own mind. If you believe it—even parts of it—so will your listener.

I’ve told Gideon some truth, but I’ll never tell him all of it. True evil is formless, immortal, and spreads through words just as easily as actions. I won’t let it touch anyone else. Not the police, not Dominic, not Gideon. If it means I take the truth to my grave, so be it.

“No,” I tell him. “They were never found.”

“And the note you found, you’re sure it’s from one of them? That would mean they held a grudge for, what, ten years? And randomly saw that photo of you in the Times?”

He’s skeptical, so I let him hear my confusion. Partial truth. Half-lies.

“It doesn’t make sense, I know. But one of them—the leader—he called us that. Mis muñequitas—his little dolls. No one would know that but him or his partner.”

Gideon slumps back into the couch, brow creased. “No wonder you bleached your hair.” He swipes a hand over his face. “And you won’t consider speaking to the police or a private investigator?”

“No.”

“Christ, Deirdre.” His fingers slip from mine. “How do you think this plays out? This stalker—whoever it is—just gives up? Come on.”

Telling the truth is impossible, but my mind blanks.

Thankfully, Gideon mistakes my silence for fear. “Never mind, you don’t have to answer that. I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, I just want you to be safe.”

I gape. “Really?”

He taps my lower lip. “You’ll catch a fly.”

I swat his hand away. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” In all the scenarios I considered, this one didn’t rank. Belatedly, I know it should have—Gideon is nothing if not unconventional.

His brows lift. “I haven’t known you that long, but I know if I pressure you, you’ll bolt. Am I wrong?”

Finally, I can tell him the truth.

“No.”

He smirks. “Thought so. But I do have a request. I want you to drop the rest of your clients and work for me full-time. And move into my guest room.”

A few seconds pass before my brain catches up with my ears. “Are you joking? Absolutely no—”

His fingers gently swipe over my mouth, silencing me. “Listen. I know you don’t need or want protection, or even help, but I want to give you some anyway. Do you think I didn’t notice how fucking scared you were when you showed up last night? It’s not safe in your condo. I’ll get a top-of-the-line security system installed here. Let me at least sleep knowing you’re safe in this house.”

Our closeness, the physical intimacy we shared last night and the emotional intimacy now, make me feel simultaneously weightless and claustrophobic. I shift away on the couch for some much-needed space and stare at the painting over the fireplace.

“I don’t know how to do this.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.

Be close to you.

Lie to you.

Tell you the truth.

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