Page 5 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Elena

T he air in the cell clings to my lungs.

My vision blurs with tears, but all I can see is Natalie.

Her lifeless body sprawled across the cold concrete floor, blood pooling beneath her.

It creeps closer and closer to my feet, the rich crimson soaking into the rough surface.

Her dark hair fans out like a halo, and though I can't see her face, I don’t need to.

The glint of her wedding bands under the flickering fluorescent light confirms what I already know.

Dead. Just like Drew.

“Do you see what you always make me do, Elena?” Peter’s voice cuts through the air as he twirls a knife between his fingers. My stomach churns, but I can’t look at him for long. My eyes are drawn to the other figure in the room.

Silas is on the floor, trying to push himself up onto his hands and knees. Blood stains his shirt, spreading from somewhere in his torso, and his breaths come in ragged gasps.

I lunge, restraints biting into my wrists, the ropes cutting deeper with every frantic tug. “Silas!” I cry, my voice cracking. “Get up!”

Peter watches him struggle, tilting his head as though he’s studying a particularly pathetic animal.

With a speed I didn't know he was capable of, Peter closes the distance between them and grabs Silas by his hair, yanking him into a kneeling position.

Silas grunts in pain, his glasses askew and cracked, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

The hatred in his eyes when they meet mine steals the breath from my lungs.

“Please,” I whimper, turning my attention to Peter. “Please. He didn’t do anything—it’s my fault.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, lips curling up.

“Oh, I know it’s your fault,” he drawls, dragging the tip of the knife along Silas’s jawline.

“But it’s so much more fun to make you watch.

” His smirk widens, a flash of teeth that makes my skin crawl.

“Now, what do you think, Silas? Should I kill you or her?”

Silas doesn’t answer right away. His head hangs for a moment before he forces himself to look at me again. The man staring back at me is a stranger.

“I’d rather die,” he spits, hoarse but venomous, “than be saved by this bitch.”

I flinch, the tears streaming down my face blurring my vision even more. “Silas,” I whisper. “Please.”

Peter laughs.

“You heard the man,” Peter bellows happily, just as he drags the blade across Silas’s throat.

Even as I scream, Silas’s dark eyes remain on mine until they lose focus, blood spilling out of his jugular and splattering onto the floor. The life drains from his glare, body slumping forward to join Natalie’s in the growing pile of crimson.

My sobs echo as Peter’s laughter rings in my ears, louder than anything else.

The sheets cling to me like a second skin, damp with sweat and tangled around my legs as if the ropes in my nightmare have followed me into the waking world. I shove them away, gasping for air as I press my hands to my chest.

The early morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting muted purples and grays over the room. The aftershocks hum through my body. No matter how many times I try to count my breaths, my lungs refuse to fill enough for relief.

I hug my knees to my chest, curling into myself as the tremors in my hands subside.

These nightmares are a plague I can’t escape. I deserve them as a punishment for everything I’ve done, but that knowledge doesn’t make them any easier to endure.

Natalie’s lifeless body flashes in my mind again, her rings catching the fluorescent light. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to block it out. Nausea climbs in my throat.

Peter managed to escape the warehouse district alive. That much was evident when he began his relentless hunt for Luis.

Luis expected it. He was already careful to keep his personal life hidden from Peter before all of this. He led Peter on a wild goose chase across the country, leaving only dead ends and fake trails.

Not only did Luis cover his own tracks, but he also covered mine.

Somewhere along the way, he pulled the right strings and altered the official police report to include an unidentified female body found in the ashes. The body didn’t exist, of course, but Peter didn’t know that, and through his network, Luis all but confirmed that Peter believed I was dead.

So while he looked for Luis, Peter believed the explosion had erased me from the equation entirely. Eventually, Peter called his dogs off the chase. At least for now.

As for Silas and Natalie, I suppose they think I’m dead, too. Or a coward.

If they had tried to call me since then, I wouldn’t know.

I cut off my old phone provider the night I left and ditched it on the street just a few blocks from Silas’s home.

If Silas’s team managed to salvage even a fragment of the footage Luis scrubbed, then they saw me trying to destroy something of theirs and killing myself in the fallout.

Either way, they won’t mourn me, and rightfully so.

My hand trembles as I reach for my phone on the nightstand.

The screen lights up, its glow harsh against the darkness.

My fingers hover over the search bar of a new browser, hesitating before typing his name.

It’s a ritual I despise, but one I’m powerless to break.

Those dreams always leave me needing to make sure they’re still alive and breathing.

The first result is an article about a charity golf tournament.

My heart tightens as I tap the link, waiting for the page to load. It’s a glowing piece about the event Natalie and Leslie planned before I left. The photos are polished and bright. Players holding trophies, group shots of attendees, including Natalie and Davey.

And him.

He looks the same with his sharp features and confident posture. His hair is a little shorter, and he’s wearing a tailored polo and fitted golf pants that sit too perfectly on him. He looks… God. He looks incredible.

My stomach twists as I scroll to the next photo. He’s in the center of a group, arm draped easily around the waist of a striking redhead with sharp cheekbones and a smile that practically leaps off the screen. I’ve seen her before in recent headlines.

In the next image, she’s leaning toward him and laughing. Silas is looking down at her, his expression warm and open. The ache in my chest deepens. I swipe to another photo, this one of the two of them standing closer together on the green.

The captions discuss the established rumors that Silas has taken an interest in this Alice woman, but I don’t even have to read it to know. I can see it. He looks happy, and she’s beautiful.

“This is what you wanted,” I whisper to myself.

The words feel like ash on my tongue. It’s true, isn’t it? I didn’t want him dragged down by me. I wanted him free. But now that I’m seeing it, watching him be free of me...

My hand moves almost unconsciously, exiting the article and pulling up the hidden folder on my phone. There are only a handful of photos of us in it, all saved from local gossip sites.

I never dared to take any myself. It always felt like holding onto a dream I didn’t deserve to have. But now, I'm desperate to remember that it wasn’t all in my head .

I open my favorite photo. The candid shot of us on the dance floor of the one gala we attended together.

Silas is holding my face in his hands, his lips pressed to mine in a kiss that made the headlines for days.

I remember that moment so vividly, the way he struggled to find the words to say that he didn’t believe a word his father said about me.

How he saw me. Wanted me. Despite everything.

A tear slips down my cheek, followed by another, until I can’t stop them. The pulsing throb in my heart spreads to every inch of me.

I’d nearly convinced myself when I left Chicago that distance would help, and I'd see things more clearly. Separate myself from the little bubble I created with him. Maybe I’d even realize it was something I built in my head because it all happened so fast. There was no slow unraveling.

No warning. I was drowning in whatever it was we had before I even had the chance to take a final breath.

The pain hasn’t dulled the way I thought it might. Its edges aren’t as sharp, but the ache is worse. Deeper. And it flares up in the quiet moments, in the nights I can’t sleep. As if some part of me refuses to let go of it.

I drop the phone onto the bed, curling back under the damp covers. The cold air from the open window brushes against my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to fall asleep and escape the memories clawing at my mind.

But all I see is Silas. His face. His hatred. All that’s left is the unbearable weight of knowing that whatever he thought of me, whatever we had, has ceased to exist.

—

I collect the plates off the small two-top, tucking the black check folder under my arm. “Thanks for coming in, you two. See you next week,” I say to the pair of women in their early twenties who have quickly become my Saturday morning regulars .

Maria, the blonde, returns the gesture as she stands.

“See you then, Elena,” she replies, scooping her bag off the back of her chair.

Her friend, Quinn, with soft brown hair, waves as they link elbows and head toward the glass doors just a few feet away, already lost in laughter over whatever conversation I interrupted.

I watch them go, my chest aching at the sight.

Though summer is Bluebird Brunch Co.'s slow season, there’s still a steady stream of locals who come into town to dine. Saturdays are usually bustling, but today is quieter than usual. Probably because the kids are about to head back to school.

“El, was that your only table?” Sarah calls from behind the order counter. She’s been manning it all morning since Justin, a flaky twenty-year-old, called out again. I nod. “Want to come help me clean? Might as well take advantage of the downtime.”

“Sure thing,” I say, stifling a yawn. The early wake-up call from that nightmare has me dragging. “Let me buss this table and then I'll be right over.”

The restaurant owner grins back before turning towards one of the espresso machines with a rag. “Thanks.”

I collect the last few dishes and wipe down the surface, glancing around the room at the few diners that McKenna is handling. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long streaks across sleek marble tabletops, caramel-colored leather banquettes, and matte black metal chairs.

After disposing of the dishes in the back and tucking the check folder into my apron pocket, I head towards Sarah with a rag in hand. At the front of the café, the order counter serves as the heart of the morning rush, though right now, it’s uncharacteristically calm.

The glass pastry case, located just below the counter, displays cinnamon rolls drizzled with icing, lemon scones dusted with powdered sugar, and thick slices of banana bread. A handwritten chalkboard menu mounted on the wall lists the café’s signature drinks .

“The insides of the cases have seen better days,” Sarah says, giving me a grimace of a smile. “Can you wipe them down?”

“You got it.”

We fall into an easy rhythm. Sarah works on the espresso machines up top, wiping down the steamer wands, and handling the occasional to-go customer, while I focus on the display cases.

Though I never wanted to see another black apron again after quitting my diner job in college, working here isn’t the same. A lot of that has to do with Sarah.

Since the moment I walked through the doors in July, she's been nothing but kind. Sarah is the type of boss who doesn’t just bark orders but jumps in when things get hectic. She remembers how people take their coffee and notices when someone needs an extra five minutes to pull themselves together.

She’s pretty in that effortless, girl-next-door kind of way, with long, dirty blonde hair she keeps tied back in a ponytail.

Even on the shorter side, she moves with easy confidence.

Always flashing an easygoing smile even during the busiest shifts.

She carries herself like someone who’s used to being relied on.

Early on, she’d asked what had brought me to this part of Colorado. I kept my answer vague, something about needing a fresh start, about Luis being a great friend for helping me get settled. She hadn’t pressed for more, and I’d been grateful for it.

I replace the last of the cleaned pastry trays, aligning the fresh croissants. Sarah finishes wiping down the counters and steps back with a satisfied sigh.

“Almost too quiet today, huh?” she muses, glancing at the mostly empty dining room. I nod but don’t say anything.

Quiet is good. It means no surprises.

Sarah rubs her hands with a towel as her gaze drifts toward the dining room. She watches McKenna for a moment before turning back to me, a thoughtful crease forming between her brows.

“I was talking with Luis the other day,” she says like she’s feeling out the words before committing to them. “About something unrelated, but you came up in conversation.”

My hands still on the tray I’m rearranging, careful to keep my expression neutral as I glance up at her. “Oh?”

She hesitates, then exhales softly, lowering her voice just enough that no one else could overhear. “The way he spoke sounded like you came here to get away from someone, like an ex.”

The words slam into me with a force I'm not prepared for.

“It's me reading into it more than anything he said,” she continues quickly to reassure me. “I just want you to know, if that’s the case, I get it. I’ve been in a bad place like that before, too.”

What the hell did he say? Why were they talking about me in that way?

I grip the edge of the case, fighting to keep my breathing even. He might have been speaking of Peter, but all I can think of is Silas. My chest tightens painfully.

Silas isn't the problem. I’m the problem.

The urge to correct her nearly burns its way out of my throat. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that whatever she thinks she knows, she doesn’t. But it would only invite more questions I don’t have the luxury of answering.

Sarah gives me a small, tentative smile. “I just wanted to say, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. No judgment.”

I force a small, tight smile in return, tucking the tray back into place. “Thanks, Sarah. That means a lot.”

She pats my shoulder gently before stepping away, moving toward the counter as another customer walks in. I keep my hands busy, but my mind is spinning, my pulse hammering in my ears.

She thinks I ran to escape someone, but I’m the one people like Silas need to escape from. Not the other way around.