Page 38 of Silas

“I can’t see anyone doing to you what he did to her, Inez.”

“That’s because you only know this version of me. You didn’t know me…before—before our mutual employer found me.” A pause; her voice is warmer and more hesitant than I’ve ever heard. “I was the first, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course not.” A deep, tense silence. “Bring her in, Silas. Show her whatrealfamily is like.”

“Yes ma’am.” I clear my throat of the thick clog of emotion. “I’d better go.”

“Yes, you had better. Be careful.”

“Will do.”

“Contact me when you reach Cincinnati. I’ll direct you from there.”

“Got it. Thanks, Inez. Talk soon.”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

I tuck the phone back into my dress slacks. First things first, I need something to wear other than this damn suit, and Naomi needs shoes, at the very least.

I go back to our room and unlock the door, push it open a few inches. “You good, Naomi?”

“I’m dressed, yes,” comes her reply; her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her.

She’s sitting at the foot of the bed, on the edge. Knees together, feet together. Bolt upright, perfect posture. Head ducked, eyes down. Waiting. Her hair is wet and tangled, falling to her mid-back.

I rip the packaging away from the brush, which gets her attention.

“You got me a brush.” She sounds both surprised and pleased.

It’s a fucking hairbrush.

Instead of handing it to her, I climb onto the bed behind her and spread my thighs around her hips in a V, framing her.

She tenses. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“Relax.”

“Silas, I—” she’s panting, about to hyperventilate.

I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Slow your breathing. I won’t hurt you.”

She sucks in a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. She’s still rock-hard with tension, however.

I gather a handful of cool damp hair and pull the brush through it. Fall back in time, to when I was a preteen kid, gangly, sensitive, and thought my mom was the best person on the planet. I pull the brush through Naomi’s hair gently, slowly, smoothly. When I hit a snag, I hold her hair so it won’t yank at her scalp as I work the brush through it.

I try to stop it, but I can’t. The melody bubbles up, out of me, unbidden. It’s some old song. Mom used to hum it when she brushed her hair. I’d sit in her room with her. She’d be fresh out of the shower, draped in an expensive silk robe, brushing her long red hair, humming this song. I don’t know what it’s called, I don’t know if it has lyrics. I just know it’s….part of me.

I hum Mom’s song, and I brush Naomi’s hair.

“What…” her voice catches. She clears her throat and tries again, barely above a whisper. “Silas…what are you doing?”

“Brushing your hair.”

“I can do it.”

“Obviously.” I go back to humming.