Page 71 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I look at him then, at the way his jaw is set and determined, and the way his eyes hold mine without flinching, without the slippery evasion I've come to expect from most people. I look at how he's let his arms drop to his sides, his palms open and facing me like laying himself bare.

He didn't say "It's important" or "It's important for security purposes." He said it's important tohim. Personally.

I drop my gaze to the sink, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. If I look at him too long, I might splinter and tell him everything.

How will he look at me then?

Like a victim.

Not a woman.

"I'm sorry," I say as I take off the yellow gloves and grip the edge of the counter.

"I… read some… articles," he says carefully, each word placed like he's walking across ice that's cracking. "About your acting career."

My body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. He knows I was an actress. How did he find out? I remain silent as if my lack of response will get him to stop asking questions. My control is slipping.

"You mentioned that a man named Alan verbally abused you. Was it Alan Miller? The director of your sitcom? Is he one of the bad guys you were involved with?"

I squeeze my eyes shut.He knows this much?I can't talk about The Director. I can't think about him or I'll—

"Londyn?"

I shake my head as a way to tell him I just can't discuss this subject right now.

Sean takes another careful breath. "Well… The articles mentioned rehab. I'm only trying to understand what we'redealing with." His voice is maddeningly calm. So calm and gentle and serious and it's slowly cracking me apart. "If Miller or these men are connected to drug dealers then—"

My fingernails scrape over the counter as words burst out. "I am not a drug addict, okay? You shouldn't read those stupid articles."

An oppressive helplessness rises, that same drowning sensation I felt while pinned beneath The Director, unable to move, unable to stop what was happening. Loss of control. Complete powerlessness. I despise that feeling more than anything, yet here it is again like an old friend.

I grab a cleaning wipe and start cleaning the spotless blender. My fear has teeth now, but I won't cry. I won't break. I won't be that vulnerable, exposed thing I was near the stairwell with Marcus.

Deep breaths.

"I believe you," Sean says. "Tell me what really happened. Help me understand."

I scrub harder until my hands ache. Then I spit words out, ready to end this conversation. "I was involved with bad people. That's it. I don't know what anyone wants with me."

We stand there, locked in silent battle—his eyes pleading for more, mine refusing to give answers. I can't tell him. I can't tell anyone.

Keep your fucking mouth shut.

If he knows, he'll look at me differently. He'll see me as damaged goods. I couldn't bear that change in his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and lets his shoulders slump. "But if you remember anything else that might—"

"I won't. That's all I know." I grab the toaster and start wiping that.

I won't. I can't.

Sean moves away, then lingers in the doorway for one long, painful moment. I can feel his eyes on my back and sense his reluctance to leave things unfinished.

"I'll be across the hall if you need me," he says before leaving.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I lean against the sink as strength drains from my legs. He knows I'm lying because I'm being a terrible actress.

I should've given him a little more. He's only trying to do his job and keep me safe from whatever sharks are circling. But, I just couldn't. The wound is too exposed, the memories too jagged, the shame too deep.

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