Page 24

“Just like that.”
Something flickers across her face—hurt, maybe, or confusion about my sudden coldness. Last night I was telling her she was beautiful, and this morning, I’m discussing her departure like it means nothing to me. It’s better this way. Cleaner and less complicated, and I won’t let her see it’s hurting. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the device I took from her pocket the night I drugged her and brought her here. “Your phone. Everything’s exactly as you left it.”
She takes it from me, and our fingers brush briefly. The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I have to force myself not to pull her closer.
I continue, trying to focus on logistics instead of the way she’s looking at me. “There are several messages from your roommate. She’s worried. You’ll want to call her.”
She scrolls through the messages with growing concern, then looks up at me with something that might be confusion or hurt. “What should I tell her?”
“Whatever you think she’ll believe.”
She continues scrolling, her face growing paler with each message. “She filed a missing person report.”
I nod sharply. “We’re aware. It’s been handled.”
She looks up sharply. “Handled how?”
“The report was withdrawn. There’s no record of it in the system.”
Her face goes even paler. “You can do that?”
“I can do a lot of things, Sabrina. Most of them you don’t want to know about.”
She stares at me for a long moment, processing the information I just revealed, accepting the kind of power it takes to make official reports disappear, and the connections that would be necessary to manipulate police databases.
Sabrina’s suddenly all too aware of the kind of man she spent the night with. She sets aside the phone and looks at me directly. “Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cold. Distant. Like last night never happened.”
The question cuts deeply. I am being cold and distant, and it’s a deliberate choice designed to make this easier for both of us. “Last night was a mistake.” The words come out harsher than I intended, and I watch her flinch as if I’d struck her.
“A mistake,” she repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
“Which part? The part where you made me feel safe for the first time in days? Or the part where you made me feel like I mattered to someone?” She sounds almost conversational and is clearly trying to mimic my aloofness without as much success.
I force myself to remain seated when every instinct is screaming at me to go to her. “All of it.”
She licks her lips as though marshaling her emotions. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can see it in your eyes.” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re scared.”
I have to draw on my willpower not to react. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“You’re scared of what you feel for me. You’re scared because caring about someone makes you vulnerable, and vulnerable people get hurt in your world.”
She’s reading me like an open book, and the accuracy of her assessment is terrifying, nut I can’t afford to let her see how right she is. I stand and move toward the window, putting physical distance between us. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. You’re leaving.”
“Because you’re making me leave.”
“Because it’s what’s best for you.”