by Jenna Mills
Lies.
Stories.
Truth.
Sometimes the lines did more than blur.
Sometimes they played hide and seek.
And sometimes they vanished altogether.
"Now back up," he was saying, "start over and tell me exactly what happened."
He was so calm, convincing. And the way he was looking at me, it would have been easy to accept the concern as real.
I told myself not to believe him. I told myself it was the chess match, the game he and Aidan played, the one at which they were both so, so good.
He knew things. Whether he was lying about following me or not, he knew things. Secrets.
Truths.
"Tell me about the others," I said, veering down a different path. Maybe I couldn't get him to admit responsibility, but maybe I could at least get him to explain. "You told me about Laurel and Danielle. But there were others, weren't there? Other women in Aidan's life who had...bad things happen."
The lines of his face tightened. "Yes. There were others."
And everything just kinda stopped. I stood there staring at him, at his grey-green eyes and high cheekbones, the blond hair queued behind his head in his trademark ponytail, the way he was dressed, in an expensive, all-black suit like an upstanding businessman.
It was a big office, spacious with tall windows and high ceilings, green plants, but in that moment, the box around me shrunk. "I didn't read anything—"
"And he hasn't told you."
My throat locked up on me. Because no. Aidan hadn't told me.
Neither had my uncle.
"He knows what he's doing, Kendall. He knows when to be seen and when not to be seen. He knows where to go when he doesn't want to draw attention to himself...he knows what to say and when to say it."
I stood there, denying. I stood there, trying to understand. "Who were they?" I asked. "Who were the others?"
"Taylor Vincent. She was about a year after Danielle."
"What happened to her?"
"Car accident."
A low sound ripped from my throat.
"Lost control and slammed into a tree."
I held myself so unnaturally still. "Was she alone?"
"Allegedly."
And I could see him again, see Aidan only hours before, the way he'd looked at me, like he wanted to touch me, but was scared to let himself.
"Anyone else?" I asked.
Sloan closed his eyes, opened them a rough-hewn breath later. "Ashley Gibbons. She moved in with him a few months ago."
A few months ago.
It was like being punched in the gut. "Where is she now?"
"Good question," Sloan said, frowning. "Except no one seems to know the answer."
Everything inside me was shaking now, shaking so hard. "What does that mean?"
"It means she wasn't there long, and no one really cared when she vanished."
"How can no one care?"
"Because no one knew where she came from, and no one reported her missing. No one demanded she be found. Hardly anyone knew she existed."
"Detective Edwards—"
"No evidence of a crime."
I could see him all over again, the concern carved into the lines of his face that morning when we stood in the shadows of Aidan's house. "And you know all this how?"
Sloan's mouth twisted. "I know all this because I tried to warn her, exactly like I tried to warn you. She wasn't even eighteen years old, so blinded by the promises Aidan made. I tried to warn her. I told her about Laurel, the others..."
"I thought you said the notes weren't from you?"
He looked like he wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands. "They're not," he said roughly. "I haven't played a single game with you, Kendall. I've been up front since the moment we met. I told you straight up that very first night that you needed to be careful. If I have something to say, I say it."
I wanted to reject the truth of that. Because if he wasn't lying... "If not you, then who?"
"I think the better question is: are the notes really warnings—or are they threats?"
The cold wouldn't go away. I lifted my arms and wrapped them tight. Threats. "Did Ashley receive them, too?"
"Not that she told me."
I turned from him, toward the window overlooking the courtyard. "Why didn't you tell me all this before?"
"I hoped I didn't need to."
I spun back to him. "What does that mean?"
"It means I hoped you would listen to me. That you'd be careful. That you wouldn't step any closer..." A distorted sound broke from his throat. "I should have known better."
From my phone, I heard the beep.
"Have I been watching you? Yes," he said. "Would I have told you the rest—yes."
I let out a slow, deep breath. "He thinks you drugged me."
Now it was Sloan's turn to look surprised. "Drugged you? When?"
My phone beeped again.
A text.
"That night at the club. Aidan thinks you slipped me something."
Sloan's eyes flashed. "He said that? He knows we were together?"
"Not in so many words. But he thinks I was drugged—and I know who was handing me drinks. If not you, then who?"
The possibilities chilled.
Sloan, yes. But he was not the only one there with a potential motive.
Adelaide.
"There were hundreds of people there," he said. "It's not that hard to slip something into someone's drink."
I knew that. I'd won an award for an in-depth piece about the phenomenon rampant on college campuses, one of the major lynchpins of rape culture. Get someone out of their mind, and they were all yours.
It was shockingly easy to do.
"But why?" I wanted a motive. "Why would some random person drug me when I was there with you?"
His smile was dark. "All good questions, Kendall. All questions you need to be asking."
I hated what he was insinuating. "You think Aidan was responsible?" Simply saying the words made me sick.
Aidan who dragged me from the club.
Aidan who cornered me in the alley.
Aidan...who told me he was done, then took me back to his house.
The next morning I'd opened my eyes in the guest room, with no memory of anything beyond staggering into my room.
"He was there, wasn't he?" Sloan lifted a shoulder, let it fall. "He was the one who rescued you. He was the one who surfaced the possibility of a drug."
Another beep.
"But why?" Nothing happened after we got home. I was sure of that. I would remember. I would. "Why would he stage something like that?"
Sloan laughed. "Because it's his world," he said simply. "And it works. Because it makes you trust him—and doubt everyone else."
Denial shot through me. Denial tore through me. But standing there in the sophisticated calm of Sloan's office, there was no denying the truth of his words.
Aidan suggested Sloan drugged me, and I'd believed him.
And quit trusting Sloan.
"Has Aidan hidden anything else from you? Has he lied? Manipulated you? Do you know that for fact?"
No.
The word tore through me.
No.
I wanted to grab the word, hold onto it.
No.
But every time I tried, the truth sliced too deep.
Yes.
"I can't make you stay away from him," Sloan said, softer now, and then he was there, across the room and taking my shoulders in his hands. "I can only tell you about those who have come before you—and warn you to keep your eyes open."
Finally, ready to be done, I fished my phone out and pulled up the texts, all from Aidan. The first was an address, and a time.
The next, my name.
The third, a question.
Are you there?
I hated the way everything inside me clenched, then started to race.
"Is something wrong?" Sloan asked.
I glanced
up. "No."
He stepped toward me. "You look like you're about to fall over—"
I jerked back, making it clear I didn't want him any closer.
Another beep.
You're scaring me.
I swallowed hard, my fingers flying across the screen.
I'm here. Are you asking me
to meet you somewhere at 7?
His response flashed within seconds.
Yes.
A little over an hour away.
"It's him, isn't it?" Sloan said. "That's why you just shut down."
The walls of the office pushed closer. "I haven't shut down."
"But we're not alone anymore," Sloan said. "He's here with us now. He's standing between us."
His choice of words twisted through me. There was no us, not me and Sloan. But I didn't see any benefit in pointing that out. All I could think about was leaving, being alone. Thinking.
Figuring out who was telling the truth, and who was lying.
7PM.
"I have to go," I said, starting for the door.
Sloan caught me before I could twist the knob, stopping me with a hand to my forearm. "Kendall."
I stiffened.
"You don't have to go. You can stay here."
"No," I said quietly. "I can't."
His breath was rough. "Then promise me you'll think about what I told you, and promise me you'll keep your eyes open."
I didn't want to promise him anything. I didn't want to believe him. All I wanted—
I didn't know. I didn't know what I wanted.
I only knew that Aidan was waiting for me—and I had an hour to decide what I was going to do.
Night 7
The Penthouse
I didn't go.
I went home and changed clothes. Then I drove. I found the address along the river, near the venue for the book signing. I parked and got out of my rental. I started to walk. Five minutes, and it would be seven.
But I kept walking, past the address he'd texted me, deeper into the Quarter. I kept thinking my phone would beep, that he'd want to know where I was.
But no beep came. No call.
So I kept walking. Along the river. Through Jackson Square.
Half an hour passed. An hour.
I had a drink. I kept checking my phone.
Nothing.
Memories played through me, the echo of his voice a soundtrack I couldn't erase. I could see him that first day all over again, only a week before. I could feel his arms around me that first night, when we danced at the book signing and it felt like everyone in attendance stopped and stared. I could see him the next day at the 9th Ward, dressed in all black. I remembered what it felt like when he tackled me, and held me there in the grass, telling me what I looked like, and laughing about the value of getting hands-on with his research.
And that was just the first twenty-four hours. Every moment swirled through me, leaving me in the boat the night before, beneath the stars with his arms around me, the feel of his body pressed to mine, and the steady, seductive thrum of his heart.
4 + 1 = 5
I put down the empty glass and started to walk away, back to my car. But I stopped at the address he'd given me, for Jax Brewery, and went inside, to the elevator. The 6th floor. All the while a strange calm slipped over me, wooden, robotic, like a magnet being drawn—
The doors slid open, bringing me to a narrow corridor, and a second door—the only one in sight.
I knocked.
No one answered.
I knocked again. "Aidan?"
The blanket of calm evaporated, leaving the unsteady racing of my pulse.
"Aidan?" I called again, with another knock, this one louder, more urgent. "It's me—I'm here."
Almost two hours late.
The silence should have prompted me to leave. The closed door should have told me something, warned me.
But I wasn't very good at heeding warnings—
And so I reached for the knob, and twisted.
The door opened, and my breath caught.
The room sprawled before me, walls of windows overlooking the twinkling skyline of the city, sleek furniture of all white and flowers of all red. Roses.
Everywhere.
Soft music played.
Candles burned.
Some were already out.
I stood there, I stood there in the dimly lit corridor, on the outside looking in, looking in at the remains of a fairytale. Each breath hurt more than the one before it, burning like acid searing through me. My chest locked. My hands started to shake.
Aidan.
So much hit me at once, the memory of last night colliding with the reality before me, the reality of what he'd created—for me.
The reality that I'd let questions and doubts keep me away.
After tucking the rosary beads into my pocket, I slipped inside and closed the door. A bottle of wine sat on the glass coffee table—open. One glass sat off to the side. Nearby, silver domes concealed platters beneath.
I looked around, looked at it all, while something inside me silently shattered.
I didn't see him, not at first, not until I moved deeper into the room of glass and steel, and saw the sliding door to the balcony. Open.
He stood there, with his back to me, his hands on the rail, looking out over the river, toward the glow of the bridge in the distance.
Stillness. That was the first word that came to me. Absolute, preternatural stillness.
Alone. That was the second word, a word I'd used the night before while working on my article.
A man with everything, who had absolutely nothing.
And deep inside, some place inside me started to bleed.
A breeze swept in from the river, warm, muggy, the breath of the night that deepened around us. The sky was dark, the moon the same barely-there sliver as the night before. Here in the city, the stars didn't gleam as brightly, more of a muted glow than a fierce glimmer, but they were the same, I knew, the same stars I'd looked at the night before, when I lay with my head against his chest.
"Aidan." My heart kicked with his name, the hitch in my voice.
He didn't move.
I'd done this, was all I could think. He'd planned something special for me, and I'd stood him up.
"This is beautiful," I said, stepping closer. "I didn't mean—"
He turned fast, like a violent streak of lightning, and everything else, the night sky and the penthouse, my capacity for thought, fell away. He stood there, tall and elegant in dark jeans and a black button-down, an empty glass in his hands—the faintest smile curving his mouth.
Ten feet separated us, but the blast of cold cut straight to the bone.
"Kendall," he murmured, his voice unmistakably hoarse. "How nice of you to finally show up."
I swallowed hard, or tried to. But my mouth was too dry, like cottony gauze. "Aidan—"
He flicked his wrist, glancing at his watch.
"I didn't mean—"
"To play games?" he finished before I could. "To say one thing but do another?"
His voice. God, his voice. It was cold, stretched thin, vibrating with something dark and palpable.
"It wasn't like that—"
"Of course not," he said. "I'm sure you merely lost track of time, that you weren't ready to leave him yet—"
I felt myself go very, very still.
"I'm sure you were having too good of a time," he gritted out. "He probably told you not to worry."
He knew. The realization slashed through me. He knew where I'd been. Who I'd been with.
"Aidan," I said, starting toward him, starting toward him because I had to, because I'd been wrong and couldn't just stand there, couldn't stand there and watch him think the worst. Believe the worst.
"No," I said—or maybe I begged. "Thats not how it was."
His eyes flashed. His eyes burned—incinerated.
That was the only warning I got.
He moved fast, his han
d coming up to hurl the glass across the balcony, to the wall behind me.
Crystal shattered, and he was there, across the space between us and taking my shoulders in his hands, his fingers pressing—holding.
"Jesus—did it never occur to you that I was waiting? That I was here—that when you didn't show up—"
"No." God, no. It hadn't occurred to me. But in that moment, the reality of what I'd done exploded through me. "I didn't think—"
"You didn't think." He released me fast, his hands falling away to ball into tight fists. "You didn't think I'd notice? That each minute would stab through me?"
Then it was me moving, me reaching for him, my hands closing around his arms. "No. I-I..." Words jammed in my throat. "I didn't mean to scare you—"
His eyes flashed again, and I knew that I had. When I'd failed to show after saying I would, I'd scared him.
Because I wasn't the first woman to leave without saying goodbye.
Wasn't the first to never come back.
He looked beyond me, inside the penthouse, to where taper candles rose up from drying puddles of wax.
Sloan.
He knew I'd been with Sloan.
Just like he'd known when I was at the club—
"You've had someone following me," I whispered sickly.
His eyes returned to mine.
"You've had someone following me all along."
The light was back in his eyes now, that dark glitter of control. "You sound surprised?"
He didn't even try to deny it. I didn't know why that shocked me, but it did.
"Why?" I asked.
His mouth twisted. "You have to ask? You show up on my doorstep for ten days of picking me apart—and you expect me not to keep an eye on where you're going, and who you're talking to?"
I let go, my hands falling away.
He made it sound so logical. So benign. And yet, the sting was immediate. The implications horrifying. If he knew I'd been with Sloan, he could know every move I'd made. Adelaide. Anna. "You didn't trust me."
"I didn't know you—"
"Maybe then," I acknowledged. "At first—but...after...last night?"
The lines of his face tightened. "You think last night changed anything?"
The sting became hurt, stabbing through me. Stabbing deep. Because, yes. I thought the night before meant something.
Because it did mean something to me.
I thought that was why he'd given me the key to the locked rooms. Because something changed.