Page 123 of Executing Malice

Dante breaks our embrace. It’s done after a loving press of his lips between my eyes before drifting away to start cleaning up the pumpkin massacre splattered across the kitchen.

“I don’t know about my parents. After you went missing, Mom filed a report with the social worker and that was it. No one looked for you. I left home to find you myself and never went back. I’m sure they’re still alive somewhere. My siblings ... they probably stayed with my parents, or they ran off. I don’t know.”

I watch the flex and bunch of his back as he scrubs and stacks the dishes. His head stays down, face focused as he empties the remains into the compost and fills the sink with water.

Deep down, I know I should stop pushing, to let it go, but I find myself edging a step closer, too curious.

“I know you said Everett wasn’t the one who took me, but are you sure?”

The hand rubbing the counter with a rag stills.

“It wasn’t.”

I take another step. “How can you be sure?”

The silence extends to a full heartbeat. Then another. It’s a palpable chill wafting through the space.

“It wasn’t,” he repeats low, so low I nearly don’t hear him.

I relent and let it go. I say nothing as I join him putting the kitchen back in order. I stand at his shoulder while we wash and rinse the dishes, neither of us saying a word. It’s impossible not to feel the coiling tension tightening his muscles, working up in his jaw. Whatever is on his mind has his knuckles white around the dishrag. He’s scrubbing like he’s trying to win a war.

Tentatively, not because I’m scared that he might strike me, but because he seems so wound tight, I touch his bicep. I brush my fingertips along the corded muscles bunching and shifting with every jerk and pull of his arm.

The touch jerks his head in my direction. It fixes me with the dark depths of his eyes pinning to mine.

I force a smile. “Let’s get dressed. We’ll finish with the seeds, but afterwards, I want to show you Halloween in Jefferson.”

He makes no argument, doesn’t seem pleased or upset. I get a nod before he turns back to the dishes.

“You go ahead and get ready. I’ll finish this.”

I’m tempted to tell him to leave it. We can do it when we get back, but he needs this. Needs to see the task completed. So, I plant a kiss to the spot I touched before leaving him to it.

It’s perfect Halloween weather. That precarious balance between cool and warm where you can still get away with wearinga light skirt without freezing. I choose a floral dress with full sleeves and a low neckline — not too low. I add my flats and brush my hair.

I’m running a gloss over my lips when Dante steps onto the threshold of my bedroom and leans into the doorframe. His arms fold over the top he must have dragged on. His sweats are replaced by his favorite brand of cargos.

Oh, what this man does to me needs to be studied.

There’s something inherently abnormal about being this devastated over a man. But the way he fills the room without even stepping into it, the way his eyes have the power to paralyze every thought process has my belly doing flips.

“Love you, Leila.”

And that.

The way he just says it. No hesitation. No doubt. A simple and irrefutable fact that washes over me like the sweet kiss of cool water on a hot day.

I love you, too.

It’s right there. Right on my tongue.

Goddamn it! Why can’t I just say it?

I set my gloss down and face him.

Just say it. Just spit it out.

But it clings to my tongue, refusing to budge.