Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Instead of coming clean, I just said, “I have a pretty good idea who set up the box.”
“But you’re not going to tell me,” she said flatly.
I shot a glance at her, wondering if I’d see irritation or anger. Instead, she looked amused and only slightly annoyed. I thought about pushing her off with a flat denial or teasing her. Instead, I went for honesty—or as much honesty as I could give her.
“You and I are working together,” I said, “but I answer to my team, and to Cooper. For now, all I can tell you is I think I know who set up that post office box, and I did find a clue.”
“But you’re not going to show me the clue.”
“No, not yet,” I said. “Later. It wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway. I think it’s an internal code.”
She looked like she wanted to argue. Instead, she sat back and nodded. “I’ll let it go for now,” she said. “I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me. That’s only going to work for so long. You realize that, right?”
“I do,” I said, aware there was a clock ticking. I wouldn’t be able to hold Sylvie at arm’s length indefinitely. She was right when she’d said that this was her case too.
But I didn’t know what to make of that cryptic clue in the envelope. I had no idea what Silas was trying to tell me. And until I did, I was keeping it from Sylvie.
We’d only been on the highway a few minutes when she leaned forward, wrestled her way out of her coat, balled it up into a pillow, and took a nap. Leaving me stuck in my head, running over all the permutations I could think of to explain the post office box, the clue, the why of it all. I didn’t miss the fact that while I was frustrated at everything Silas hadn’t told us, I was doing the exact same thing to Sylvie, keeping her on a need-to-know basis, having decided she needed to know almost nothing.
Sylvie couldn’t know any of it, not yet.
Right?
I kept assuring myself that my keeping her in the dark was necessary.
But is it really?
Maybe she was new on the scene, but she had just as much skin in the game as anyone else. More, if I was being honest with myself. Someone wasn’t trying to blow me up. I hadn’t lost everything I owned. My career wasn’t on the line. All of that was true for Sylvie. I owed her more than half-truths.
The time I spent driving back to Atlanta that wasn’t used trying to figure out what the fuck Silas was up to—and whether he needed an assist or I just needed to be patient—was spent trying to convince myself that I didn’t owe Sylvie any more than I’d already given her.
I didn’t get very far on either front.
Chapter Fifteen
ELI
It was evening when we got back to the Sinclair Security building. Most of the vehicles in the underground garage were gone. We went straight to the safe house apartment to find a labeled casserole in a disposable aluminum pan in the refrigerator.
Alice. I’d asked for help with dinner, and she’d come through. The note read: Stick this in the oven at 350 for 45 minutes. I recognized the label on the lid of the casserole dish as coming from a restaurant around the corner that, among other things, did family-style takeout. Perfect.
I threw it in the oven while Sylvie disappeared down the hall to take a shower, saying she needed to wash off the day. I knew what she meant. I hadn’t been looking forward to going back to Hollow Creek, but I hadn’t expected the day to carry so much weight. Stupid, in retrospect—how could it not?
Of course, it would sit heavy on my heart. Still, I wanted to push that away, to pretend. No big deal, I’ve got this. I didn’t want to feel the heavy press of it. I wanted to be Eli, to find my way back to the man I was day-to-day. It had been thirteen years, after all. I didn’t grieve every moment of every day. But today—today that was beyond me. I wanted to eat and sleep and leave this day behind me. All of it. Except Sylvie.
The way she’d seamlessly played the part with the neighbor, telling her a story of a couple looking for a rental. Then, the flush in her cheeks when Miss Carmody had recognized her voice—the sincere, flattered joy in connecting with a fan who loved the thing Sylvie loved doing. The light in her eyes, the way she’d leaned across the counter, telling secrets that had made Miss Carmody’s day.
And later, the way she’d come to wrap her arms around me at the graveside. We both knew I never would have asked. I could barely admit to myself that I needed her touch, her support. But I had. Maybe I hadn’t even known how much until she was there, holding me until I was ready to go.