Page 101 of Filthy Lies

I read the letter again, and again, and again, until the words blur before my eyes.

This isn’t the cold-blooded killer Vince described.

This is a man broken by love, respecting a woman’s choice even as it destroys him.

There are more letters. Dozens of them, spanning years. In them, I discover a man I never knew existed. A man who tracked my progress through school, who knew about my science fair projects and my failed attempt at making the track team. A man who arranged for the telescope I received on my twelfth birthday, for the prom dress that arrived mysteriously when Mom’s bank account couldn’t stretch to cover it.

A man who loved from afar because he believed it was the only way to keep us safe.

I’m still sitting there, letters scattered around me, when Vince finds me hours later. “Rowan?” He pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. “What’s all this?”

I hold up one of the letters. “Letters from Grigor to my mother. Letters she kept all these years.”

Wariness crosses his face. “What do they say?”

“That he loved her. That he respected her choice to leave. That he watched over us from a distance.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “That he’s been part of my life in ways I never knew.”

Vince’s expression darkens as he approaches, taking one of the letters to scan its contents. “This doesn’t change who he is, Rowan.”

“Doesn’t it?” I gather the letters into a pile. “It changes who I thought he was.”

“He’s still a killer. Still the head of an organization that deals in death and suffering.”

“So are you,” I counter. “And yet here we are.”

The silence stretches between us, taut as a tripwire. “It’s not the same,” he finally says.

“Isn’t it?” I laugh. “You and Grigor are more alike than you want to admit. Why can’t you see that?”

“I would never have abandoned you and Sofiya the way he abandoned your mother and you.”

“He didn’t abandon us.” I hold up another letter. “He let us go. There’s a difference.”

Vince runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “What are you saying, Rowan? That you want a relationship with him now? Do these letters somehow erase the danger he poses?”

“I’m saying I understand him better,” I reply. “And maybe, just maybe, understanding is the first step toward something besides all the awful shit that’s come before.”

He sighs and sits beside me on the bed. “You’re grieving. Looking for connections that aren’t there.”

“Or maybe I’m seeing clearly for the first time.” I touch his face to feel the tension in his jaw. “Love—even love born in darkness—can still be real. Worth fighting for.”

His eyes search mine. “And our love? What’s that worth?”

I lean forward until our foreheads touch. “Everything,” I whisper. “But not at the cost of more bloodshed. Not at the cost of Sofiya growing up in a war zone.”

“What then?” His rasp is barely audible. “What’s the alternative?”

I trace the line of his jaw with my finger. “What if the letters aren’t just about the past? What if they’re a glimpse of a different future?”

“Speak plainly, Rowan.”

“What if peace is possible?” I say against his lips. “What if there’s a way to end this that doesn’t involve more death?”

Vince closes his eyes. His lashes are dark against his skin, the only softness in a face carved from granite. “Peace requires trust,” he murmurs. “And trust is exactly what we can’t afford.”

“Can’t we?” I challenge. “Or won’t we?”

His eyes snap open, winter blue and shark-cold. “Careful, Rowan,” he warns. “Grief makes you vulnerable. Makes you see possibilities that don’t exist.”

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