Page 78 of Conflicted Lies

“He’s the detective from that night Charlotte stole the wallet,” Dad says as he stops at the piece I’m currently working on.

“Yes.”

“And he could ruin us. Could be using you,” he says, looking up at me. I know that look. It’s the one he gives every time he’s about to dispose of an immediate danger.

“Please don’t kill him. I—” The words cut off at my throat.

“You love him?” my aunt says condescendingly with a roll of her eyes. “Men come and go. There’s plenty for you out there. Don’t settle. Especially for one who isn’t rich.”

“I’m not like you, okay?!” I snap. And for the first time, my aunt looks like she might be… hurt isn’t the right word. I’m certain my aunt doesn’t even bleed. I adjust my glasses, wanting to hide behind them. But the part of me that Braxton has nurtured—thatI’venurtured—rises up to challenge them. “I’m not like either of you.” In many ways. “You can’t tell me that it was all smooth sailing between you and River,” I say to Aunt Anya. I then look at my father. “Or you and Mom. You’ve said it yourself that you two come from different worlds, and yet, you make it work.”

“This is different, Hope,” my aunt argues, and my father simply stares at me as if seeing a side to me he’s never witnessed before. “You’re young, impressionable?—”

“I am my own woman!” I shout. “And I can’t live under the perfect little bubble you expect of me anymore.”

She’s taken aback, clicking her tongue. “No one has ever put expectations on you, little one, except for yourself. Don’t blame others for situations or routines you’re not yet brave enough to get out of yourself.”

It’s like a slap to the face.

“Enough,” Dad says. “We’ll discuss this at a later time. We came here for something else.”

“We’re not moving on from this discussion until both of you promise me you won’t touch him.” I raise my hand at my aunt and add, “Or order anyone else to touch him.”

They share a look, and my aunt tsks disapprovingly.

“For now,” Dad agrees, but it doesn’t give me any confidence in the matter.

Palpable tension fills the air and then shifts into something else. Something deadly as my aunt speaks. “We got a tip. A concerning one, to say the least.” She smiles. “You’ve become messy, Hope Ivanov.”

I look at my father in confusion. What the fuck are they talking about? “Tip?”

“Yes, you know that when bad things happen in the city, those things will, in some way or another, end up coming through us, correct?” Anya says, and my father watches me carefully.

“What are you talking about?” I’m so confused. Are they still referring to me and Braxton? That he and I are bad? I already knew that, but I didn’t think they knew that. I assumed I was doing a good job at hiding it all, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong. I should’ve ended it with him because now I have my family standing here, and my father is looking at me like he hasn’t seen me before.

I don’t like it.

I love my family; I truly, deeply do. It’s one thing in this life that I know God gave me right. And I understand how completely fucked up that sounds to an average person, but who else has an aunty who would literally kill for them? Because I know for sure mine would.

“Hawke has been teaching you how to shoot,” Anya says.

I roll my eyes. “He told you?”

“No, of course, he didn’t. I worked that one out all on my own. He’s been miserable since Ford made his relationship with Billie official, so I’ve been keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while he’s bored.”

“Does Mom know?” I ask my father. I don’t think me using a gun is worse than dating a detective. She specifically warned me off, but it feels like a mountain of crimes is piling up against me.

He shakes his head. “It’s best she doesn’t know about this. To protect her.”

My hands are clammy, and I wipe them on my overalls. What is he talking about? What’s going on that I’m not aware of? And why is it taking so long to get to the point? Is it the glass statues? Do they know about them?

“Are you… mad at me?” I ask my father.

“No,” he replies at the same time Anya says, “Disappointed.”

I wipe my hands again. I fucking hate how much weight that word holds. They’redisappointedin me. I’m successful. I tried to be the perfect daughter. I tried to push away all of these murky and ugly impulses. Yes, I may be fucking a detective, but I’m not in a relationship with him. I don’t tell him any secrets. Granted, he knows how I like to be fucked, and that’s probably a secret in and of itself. But disappointed? It hurts more than it should because, for the last four years, I feel like I’ve been fighting an upstream battle, and now I’m drowning.

“Can one of you tell me why you’re disappointed?” I snap. I’m sick of this game, sick of them trying to pry without giving too much away in case I confess to something more.

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