Page 77 of Man of Lies

Gideon was sitting back on his heels, watching me with concern. I couldn’t stand the worried look in his eyes, so I turned my back to him and focused on the phone in my hand.

“You didn’t call,” I said, quieter this time, before I could second-guess myself. “You didn’t text.”

“I know,” he said, and that single admission landed harder than most people’s apologies. “I figured if I reached out too soon, I’d only drag you through more pain. You don’t deserve that. You deserve a man who knows exactly who he is and what he’s got to offer.”

He paused. I could hear the quaking breath he took, shoring up his courage to say the next part.

“I didn’t know if I had anything left in me that wasn’t a lie.”

I kneaded the back of my neck, digging my fingers into the knotted muscle to keep from crawling out of my skin. “And now?”

“I didn’t call to explain,” he said, voice dipping lower, into that dangerous register that always felt like it was meant for just me. “I want you to meet me.”

My grip tightened around the phone. “Where?”

“Take a drive,” he murmured. “I’ll text the address. North side of the parish, past the rail yard. You’ll know when you see it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he said, and I could hear the shape of his smile, the kind that made promises without ever saying a word. “It’s a chance...for both of us. Don’t keep me waiting, counselor.”

Then he hung up.

I stared down at the dark screen, already missing the sound of his voice. The address came through a moment later. No message. Just a dropped pin. Very precisely, with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, I slipped the phone back into my pocket.

When I turned back to Gideon, filled with trepidation and fear, he was already watching me. His smile was gentle, equal parts priest and big brother, and just enough to give me courage.

“I’ve got it here,” he said, picking up the rag I’d dropped. “Go.”

I tripped in my rush out of the barn, heart hammering. My jeans were stained with grease, and my damp shirt clung uncomfortably to my sweaty skin. I should’ve taken some time to change and wash up, or at least made some attempt to look likea man with control over his own damn life, but I couldn’t waste the time.

Not when he was waiting for me.

The sun was sinking low when I hit the road, bleeding orange and gold across the windshield and softening the world's edges. I followed the pin north, past the big houses with white columns and wraparound porches, past hayfields and feed stores, and past trailer parks with rusted swing sets and cars up on blocks. The further I drove, the more the world unraveled—manicured fences giving way to leaning mailboxes and roads that buckled at the shoulder—and eventually, to nothing at all. Kudzu crept up fence posts, reclaiming them for the wilderness, and the trees got taller, older, as the bayou took over.

I rolled the windows down just enough to let the humid air crawl in, thick with the green scent of standing water.

The GPS cut out a mile back, but I’d memorized the location by heart, so I pushed on. Asphalt gave way to gravel, churning up the underside of the Porsche, and then to packed earth, damp with bayou mist. Cypress trees rose like giants on either side, their roots half-drowned in black water. Moss trailed like silk from their branches.

Just as I began to wonder if I’d overshot the pin, I saw it. A cabin—small, clean-lined, and glowing with warmth against the encroaching dusk. It sat tucked at the end of a crooked driveway, cradled by an overgrowth of trees. Wooden steps led up to a wraparound porch strung with soft yellow lights. A stone path branched off the side of the house, leading the way to a solid-looking dock.

I killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, hands still on the wheel, staring through the windshield like the place might vanish if I blinked too hard.

This was the place he’d told me about the day of our road trip, the only home he’d ever described with peace and reverence. The dock, the trees, the hush of water lapping at the shore...it was all exactly as he’d described it. Not theexactplace, of course…but it was the same in spirit.

I climbed out of the Porsche slowly. Gravel shifted under my boots as I crossed the driveway, but when I reached the steps, my palm hovered over the railing. I closed my eyes, grounding myself, breathing in the smell of sun-warmed wood and listening to the creak of the porch settling in the breeze.

For one split second, I thought about turning back. Not because I didn’t want this, but because I did. Too much.

I was fucking terrified.

But that had never stopped me, so I gripped the railing and forced myself to climb the stairs.

No answer on the first knock, and then again on the second. No footsteps inside. No voice. Absolute silence, suspended, like the world was holding its breath with me. Somewhere in the trees, a heron called low and mournful.

And then?—

The soft crunch of gravel behind me.

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