by Meli Raine
Tap tap tap.
Or not.
“Duff?” I call out, following the protocol Silas insists on now.
“It’s Silas.”
Oh. Didn’t expect that.
“Can I come in?”
I get up, unlock the door, and stare at him.
“You need to come to this meeting with Mark,” he says, abrupt and intense.
“I thought I wasn’t welcome.”
“I got you an invitation.”
“I don’t want to go if –”
“Jenna is dead.”
I can feel my pulse under the half moons of soft skin below my eyes. “What?”
“Jenna. She died earlier today.”
“But we just saw her!”
“I know.”
The cup of hot tea in my hand starts to dribble as I shake. Silas reaches for it, taking it out of my hand with a delicacy that makes me shake even more. Setting the cup on an end table, he turns to me.
“I’m sorry. That was abrupt. But I need to be efficient. The sooner we get to Santa Monica, the better.”
“What’s in Santa Monica?”
“Mark. Drew. Pretty sure Lindsay and Carrie are there, too.”
“I thought Drew and Lindsay were staying here?”
“I guess. But the meeting’s near Mark’s place.”
“Near?”
“I’m waiting for specifics. I’m guessing we’ll meet outside.” He looks at me. “Do you have a hat?”
“A hat? No, I don’t have a hat. Do I need one?” I look out the window. “It’s not raining, and the sun’s almost down, and why are you being so weird?”
“I have a baseball cap in the car.”
“Silas,” I say firmly. “First, you show up unannounced. Next you tell me Jenna is dead. Then you ask me if I have a hat. What the heck is going on? How did Jenna die?”
“She was found in a crack house. Cops say she died of a heroin and fentanyl overdose.”
“Like your sister?”
He’s in the middle of inhaling when I say that. His whole body just stops. He nods.
“Oh, my God. They killed Tricia.”
“Who is they?”
“Whoever the ‘they’ is behind all these deaths. You don’t think I killed her?”
“We settled this yesterday, Jane. No. I do not think you killed her. I don’t think you killed my sister, or Mandy, or Tara, or were behind anyone’s death or pain.”
“Good.”
“But it’s looking bad. You’re on camera slapping her, and a few hours later she’s found dead.”
“Dead like your sister.”
“I haven’t even had time to mourn Tricia,” he says. “Nothing makes sense.”
“It’s all my fault. I am so sorry.”
“You were not responsible for my sister’s death.”
“No. I mean the mess. I’m at the center of a giant scandal that started before I was born.” The scent of lavender reminds me of my tea. It’s gone lukewarm, but it’s something. I grab the cup and take a sip. Silas watches me.
“We’re never getting a break.”
“That’s what it looks like. Life is nothing but a rollercoaster of death and pain.”
“I don’t want that to be true.”
An image of Jenna, frail and afraid, makes my heart stick in my throat. “Was I a monster back there?” I ask him, feeling bleak.
“What?”
“A monster. Am I becoming a monster, Silas? Is that what my life is doing to me? Jenna wanted protection. I offered her nothing but violence and anger. I couldn’t find compassion,” I say, starting to sob, my words coming out broken. “I slapped her and screamed at her and now she’s dead. Someone killed her. I didn’t have the – the strength to see her situation and try to help.”
“Stop,” he says firmly, grasping my shoulder and tipping my chin up. “You’re beating yourself up. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. Even that slap was justified. She spent all those years lying about Lindsay, all those years wishing you’d stayed at that party that night. All those years being selfish. Even in the end, she was self-centered and cold. Just because she’s dead now doesn’t mean she was a saint during her life.”
“Not a saint. But she deserved more from me.”
“I don’t think so. I think you deserved more from her. Lindsay deserved more from Tara, Mandy, and Jenna. I think you’re torturing yourself because it’s easier than accepting the fact that you stood up for yourself and your mother. You looked into the eyes of a real monster and said, enough.”
“I’m tired of seeing monsters everywhere I look, Silas.”
“You’re not looking at one now,” he says, his voice firm but soft at the same time.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
“And I’m not looking at one, either. I see a wonderful, loving human being who is getting pummeled by the universe, who is targeted by some very evil people, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let them break you.” He’s still holding my shoulders, but keeping himself at a respectful distance. The business shirt he’s wearing is open at the throat, unbuttoned and loose. No tie. A smattering of chest hair, dark and warm, pokes out between the collar and the first button. His beard is a little thicker than yesterday, and I realize he hasn’t shaved. A hint of soap tickles my nose, but he’s rumpled. Tired.
Well used.
And we still have a big meeting tonight.
The look on his face tells me I’m supposed to acknowledge his words. All I can think about is how nice he is. How powerful. Skillful in ways that are different from most security types. A gentle giant who doesn’t need to preen or boast. He’s not an asshole like Drew can be. Alpha men come in many different versions.
Some are self-contained.
Some need to be in charge.
Others are complexly able to find their own path, without needing to dominate in traditional ways. Silas is his own man. He doesn’t meet externalities. Whatever drives him comes from within.
And the direct path I have through his gaze to his heart within tells me I’m in there, somehow, my place in his inner sanctum one I can have forever.
If I ask.
“Jane.” His voice is low, rough, a gasp that sounds like he’s saying hello at the same time he’s saying, enough.
Enough separation.
Enough distrust.
Enough distance.
We’ve had enough.
Time to have more than that.
“Silas,” I say, my body making the decision for me, moving to him as if fate gave me a nudge from behind. Whatever I’m fighting, it seems silly now, frivolous and immature. He’s here for me. I need him. I’m not giving him my heart on a platter. I’m not conceding any crucial pieces of myself.
Being in his arms is the only space where I feel safe. I need to feel safe.
I deserve to feel safe.
As his arms wrap around my shoulders, I slide mine up under his, my palms flat against his shoulder blades. Breathing him in is like being in Lilly’s flower shop, the air itself feeding me. Like a deep breath in an oxygen-filled room with fresh blossoms galore, his scent recharges me. Gives me strength.
Gives me a place to rest.
“I’m sorry,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through. And I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I understand why you did what you did. We can agree to disagree about it, but I do know this: you did it because of your own scarred past. I’m so sorry you lived through all that, Silas.”
“Our pasts make us who we are.”
“I can still empathize and tell you it sucks you had to go through that.”
“Ditto, Jane. Ditto.”
We stand there, the embrace deepening, each other’s touch enough. I don’t know how long we stand like that. Time loses meaning as we spiral inward. His breath becomes mine. My worries become his. We integrate. We comfort. We soothe.
I don’t want to kiss him.
Kissing him would mean changing this into something more heady. More engrossing. More demanding.
I can’t have demands made on me.
He seems to sense this, pulling back without positioning himself for a kiss. Our eyes meet and he smiles. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
One of his hands finds mine. He looks at my hair. “We’ll figure out the hat in the car.”
“You’re serious about the hat?”
“I am. Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I say yes because I want to say yes.
It feels so good to let go.
I grab my purse and head out to the parking lot, where Silas is driving a tiny red car. It reminds me of my old car. The engine starts rough, but we pull out onto the main road. I feel happy to be with him but overwhelmed. What does any of this mean?
“Am I still fired?” he asks, his voice casual, as if he’s asking about the weather.
“What?”
“You fired me. Technically. Yesterday.”
“I did. Are you here in an official capacity? You insisted on coming to Jenna’s this morning.”
Before he can answer, my phone rings again. This time, the caller ID fills my body with dread.
“It’s the senator,” I tell Silas, whose eyebrows shoot up.
“Better take it. We don’t want him showing up unexpectedly at Mark’s meeting. We don’t know if he’s part of this cabal or not.”
Very reluctantly, I take the call.
“Jane? I understand you’re safe,” my father says, his voice rumbling with that movie-star quality. I feel like he’s an older man playing the part of a high-ranking government official.
Though he is a high-ranking government official.
“I am.”
“I’m worried about you. You’re with him, aren’t you?”
“Him?”
“Gentian.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t trust him.”
“Excuse me?” My skin hums with fear. I look at Silas, who is on his phone. My eyes dart away. I’m caught between these strange words and the man I’m being warned away from sitting inches from me.
“Don’t trust him.” Harry’s voice goes very quiet. “You know Jenna died.”
“Yes.”
“In the same manner as his sister.”
“Mmmm.”
“Do you feel safe with him? I can tell you’ve gone quiet because he’s present.”
“I’m fine.” If anyone’s making me feel unsafe, it’s you, I want to tell my father, but I can’t.
“We have serious concerns that Gentian is part of a drug ring. Evidence has come through that connects his sister’s death and Jenna’s death to a very specific kind of fentanyl. Some kind of designer strain trafficked by the Russian mafia.”
My lungs feel like over-inflated balloons.
This is surreal.
Silas just told me the same thing.
But pointing the finger at a very, very different target.
“Wow,” I say softly, buying time.
“More than wow. Jane, I don’t want you to touch any surface that isn’t clear. Wear gloves. Stay away from opening your own mail.”
“Huh?”
“No one knows how dangerous this Russian mafia fentanyl is. Especially when you have wet hands or rubbing alcohol of any kind on your skin. Fentanyl absorbs readily into the skin when wet.”
I look at Silas’s hand. The car door handle. The seat belt.
When everything you touch could be contaminated, what do you do?
“Where did you – how do you know this?”
“Extremely reliable sources.”
“How reliable?”
“Iron clad. Do whatever you need to do to get away from him.”
“Where should I go?” My words make Silas pause on his phone, ears perked.
“Wherever you’re safe. I don’t trust him. I’ve told Drew, but we have a difference of opinion on this issue. You fired Gentian, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
I grit my teeth at that.
“Trust Drew. Don’t trust his judgment about Gentian, though. We’re uncovering some nasty threads that tie him to drug trafficking in areas you’d never believe, Jane.”
“I’m not believing this,” I say.
He lets out a sound of acknowledgment. “It’s hard to believe, but you have to face facts when they’re brutally shoved in your face.”
Says the man who can’t see that his own wife is at the vortex of all this pain and violence.
“I’ll take your words under consideration,” I tell Harry.
“You need to do more than that.”
“Like what?”
“Do whatever it takes to get away from Gentian. I know you trust him. I know you think you love him.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know enough to make this call, Jane. Don’t be silly.”
“Good-bye.”
I press End and stare straight ahead. Silas sits next to me, pretending he doesn’t want to ask about Harry’s call. There is no struggle inside me. This is simple. Silas may have broken some connecting piece between the two of us yesterday, but I don’t seriously suspect him of killing his own sister and Jenna.
Or trying to kill me.
Harry’s call, though – why? Why would he bother?
“What was that all about?” Silas finally asks.
“Harry says I shouldn’t trust you.”
“I gathered.”
“He told me this interesting story.”
“I love a good story.”
“It involves the Russian mafia and designer fentanyl.”
Silas sits up so fast, he whacks the top of his head on the dome light as we happen to hit a bump in the road. “He told you what?”
“Yeah. I thought the timing was odd, too.”
“We’re being fed different versions of the same story. Someone’s spinning hard behind the scenes to take control of this detail. Someone wants to use the Russian mafia’s designer fentanyl to make someone else the bad guy.” Silas rubs the top of his head and winces.
“Harry explicitly tried to make that bad guy be you.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“No, no, he really did.”
“I believe he said that about me. I mean I don’t buy what’s going on. What does Harry have against me? I’m being used as a pawn.”
“Welcome to the club. You get two free drinks on the house before it’s a cash bar.”
“Monica,” Silas says, ignoring my sarcasm. “She must be feeding him this info. Playing on his fears now. Trying to turn you against me.”
“I don’t believe him,” I say pointedly. “I know you believed Monica when she told you I was connected to Tricia’s death.”
“I didn’t. I swear. But it was just circumstantial enough, on top of other details, to push us to the point of needing to do something.” His gaze is intense. “Do you believe your father?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“It would be easier if I did.”
“Why?”
“Because then I could just get the hell away from you and never have to deal with all these feelings.”
Silas
Feelings.
At least she has feelings for me. Complicated ones. Complex, layered emotions that aren’t an on/off switch.
“I’m glad,” I say.
“Glad about what?”
“That you have feelings about me. Ambivalence would be worse.”
“I’m not capable of being ambivalent about anything these days. The moment I become ambivalent is the moment I die.”
“Don’t joke about your death.”
“Who said I was joking?”
Stopped at a traffic light, I text Drew: Harry’s telling Jane I’m involved with the fentanyl. We need to step up on rumor
s. Who’s spreading this?
Drew replies almost instantly: Beat you to it. We’re tracing that source. Waiting for lab results on Jenna. Default to Monica.
“Harry told me to go where I’m safe. Alice’s ranch feels safe to me,” she says out of the blue, the mention of Alice’s place turning a series of gears in my mind, each meshed intricately with the next, the implications rattling my need to keep her safe.
“Are you kidding? It’s crawling with paparazzi and mourners.”
“Mourners?”
“People coming to the ranch and leaving flowers, candles, stuff along her driveway. Like a memorial site.”
“That’s happening there now?”
“The staff are taking care of it. Your lawyers do need you to take care of some of the operational paperwork involved.” He thinks for a few seconds. “Maybe that trip to D.C. isn’t such a bad idea.”
“So I can take care of the paperwork?”
“So you can get to a place where you’re less of a target.”
“I don’t want to go to D.C. I want to go to Texas.”
“But you have to go to D.C., right? Something involving Alice’s estate.”
“How do you know? Besides, I haven’t heard back yet.”
“We monitor all your calls, all your email, all of it, Jane. We know. And yes, you do have to go to D.C. They can’t take care of the issue here.”
She grabs her phone and glares at me, then opens her email, reading as she chews me out.
“Look, buddy. You’re lucky I’m even talking to you. If I want to go to Alice’s house – which is technically my house now – I will.”
“Not if it puts you in danger.”
“Everything puts me in danger!”
“That’s the problem.”
“I can’t keep living like this, Silas. Something has to give.”
“I won’t let it be you. I know you want more control over your life, but you have to be alive in order to have that.”
“You call this living?”
“It’s better than the alternative.”
She’s pissed. I barely have a shred of trust from her. I know I’m wearing away at that tiny connection she’s letting us have. Compromising on this is a no-go. I have to sacrifice whatever trust I’ve gained to keep her safe.
I don’t like the tradeoff.
Simmering silence is all I get for the rest of the car ride.
“I could believe him, you know,” she says as I pull into the big public parking lot on Mark’s street.
