Page 39 of Web of Lies

Riley

Hot water rains down on me, washing away the grime clinging to my skin and the chaos clouding my thoughts.

The heat melts the tension from my muscles, and I lean back against the cool tiled wall.

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them like a shield.

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four endless hours have passed since Kyle brought me home, and I've locked myself in this room with nothing but my thoughts.

Kyle is the butcher, and I'm a rat sent to find him.

A groan vibrates in my throat as I comb my fingers through my wet hair.

Gripping the strands and pulling until my scalp stings.

Everything I thought I knew has become a blurry mess, and not a single puzzle piece is in the right place.

I was supposed to be the odd one: the liar and the traitor.

I thought Kyle would be my chaotic constant in the mess I made—the one person not tied to it all that I could lean on.

He was never supposed to get dragged into this, yet he was in from the beginning.

Eventually, I rise to my feet and climb out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself and tying my hair up.

My gaze drifts to my toiletry bag on the counter.

Among the usual care products is a small bag of pills.

. My way of keeping my mind sharp when everything else feels like it's falling apart.

With shaky hands, I reach for it, pop one into my mouth, and turn on the faucet.

I cup water into my hands and swallow, my throat burning slightly as the pill slides down.

My hands land flat on the counter, and I close my eyes, waiting for the familiar warmth to spread.

Within minutes, a flush creeps across my skin.

My muscles relax, my heartbeat lifts in a gentle rhythm, and the edges of my anxiety blur.

My thoughts sharpen even as tension drains away, leaving me simultaneously calm and alert as a faint euphoria nudges the fear and doubt into the background.

I open my eyes and meet my reflection, staring back at me like a stranger I hardly recognize. My pale skin looks almost translucent, veins tracing faint blue paths beneath the surface. The freckles I usually notice so easily are muted, dull in the harsh bathroom light.

I can't stay locked in Kyle's guestroom forever.

Yes, I'm safe—for now—but that safety is temporary.

My chest tightens at the thought. I refuse to be a prisoner to my own thoughts and the man I thought I could trust, the one who has been both my protector and my tormentor.

I need answers to understand the chaos that has our lives tangled up.

I turn away from the mirror, go back to the guest room, and put on a clean thong and a loose, worn shirt.

Then, I let my damp hair fall free over my shoulders; the strands clinging to my skin.

I pause for a moment, glancing once more at my reflection in the mirror on the wall.

My hair is already soaking through the fabric of the shirt, which clings to my shoulders.

I snatch the towel from the bed again and tap at my hair as I approach the door.

I curl my fingers around the doorknob, twist the lock, and push the door open. The hallway is bathed in darkness; not a single light illuminates the penthouse. Maybe Kyle has gone to bed.

As I take a step forward, my toe stubs against something, and the sound of crumbling plastic echoes through the quiet air.

My gaze drops to the bag of food containers, small snacks, and drinks piled on the ground.

A loud meow follows, and Dumpster comes trotting toward me, her tail high, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Shhh," I shush her, crouching down and brushing her fluffy fur. "We don't want to wake anyone, do we?" I lift her up into my arms, cradling her like an infant. Easing into it, she closes her eyes, a soft purr rumbling in her chest.

I pad down the hallway, my steps as light as a feather, as I tiptoe into the open living room.

A cool breeze blows through the room, the curtains fluttering in the wind.

My gaze falls on the floor-to-ceiling balcony door, which is wide open.

The scent of a familiar mix of tobacco and cannabis floats through the air.

My attention is drawn to Kyle, who is sitting outside on a chair with a glowing stick resembling a cigarette stuck between his lips while he presses his phone to his ear.

My gaze shifts from him to the living room, which has transformed into a complete mess overnight.

Blankets, pillows, papers, and Dumpsters toys are scattered across every flat surface.

The view mirrors the state of my brain right now.

Everything is spread out, and not a single puzzle piece is in its designated place.

Step by step, I carefully navigate the landmines and approach the balcony door.

At the sound of my quiet footsteps, Kyle's head whips around, and he looks at me with wide, bloodshot eyes. "I'll call you back later," he says, ending the call and placing his phone down. "Can I do something for you?"

"Can we talk?"

"Sure," Kyle says, rising from the chair. He puts out his cigarette and grabs his phone. "Let's go inside, though. I don't have any direct neighbors, but who knows."

I nod and turn around, climbing over the mess on the floor and heading for the couch.

"Sorry about the mess," he says and bends down, scooping up a couple of pillows from the floor and tossing them onto the sofa.

"I was trying to reorganize," he adds with a faint, humorless laugh, "but I kept getting distracted.

" His movements are too quick, like he's trying to keep his hands busy.

And yet, all I can focus on is the way his jaw ticks when he avoids my eyes.

"Leave it," I mutter with a tired sigh, lowering myself onto the cushions of the sofa with Dumpster still in my arms. She shifts a little but quickly settles into my lap.

Kyle freezes for a beat, then lets the item in his hands drop with a dull thud before he crosses the room and sinks onto the sofa opposite me. The silence that follows is suffocating. It's not the kind that's comfortable, but awkward.

"What do you want to talk about?" His voice is low as he finally speaks.

"Everything." The word slips out harsher than I intended. "I want the full truth. From both of us."

His lips press into a thin line, then he gives the smallest nod. "Okay. Go ahead. Ask your questions. I'll answer everything truthfully this time."

I swallow hard, my hand gliding over Dumpster's fur in a slow, rhythmic motion. "I don't even know where to start. Because… do I even know you?"

"You do," he says, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I'm still the man you got to know, with all his quirks. My job is simply more complicated than I let on."

"Really?" My voice is flat with skepticism.

"Yes." His eyes search mine. "Everything remains the same: my likes and dislikes, my interests. Nothing about that was ever a lie."

My head bobs in a slow nod. "Why?" I finally ask, my gaze dropping to Dumpster as she shifts in my lap. "Why do you do this?"

"Like I mentioned yesterday," he says with a sigh, folding his hands. "My mom is a cannibal. I started because of her."

"Of your own accord?" I look back up at him, my brows knitting together.

"No." His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he hesitates, his eyes flicking across my face. "I took after my dad."

"He was the original Butcher?" The question tastes bitter on my tongue.

"Yes." The admission comes without hesitation.

I hum in response. My mind races, the chaotic puzzle I've been trying to solve suddenly shifting, pieces clicking into place. The bloody threads connecting Kyle, his mother, his father, and the Butcher form a picture.

"For how long have you been doing it?"

"Eight years on my own."

I swallow the knot crawling up my throat. "How many people know that you're the Butcher?"

"Only a handful," he admits. "My parents. Noah. The Pakhan. The Don. And the Boss of the Irish."

"And Chloé," I add; my gaze meets his.

A sigh slips from his lips, and his shoulders sag. "Yes. She found out by accident."

"By accident?" I cock a brow, heat burning in my chest.

"She caught me in the act because she was after the same target." His gaze flicks past me for a moment, like he's caught in the memory, but his attention shifts back to me. "She was… fascinated by me being the Butcher, and we had a short fling, but it didn't last long."

The word "fascinated" hits me like a punch to the gut.

A sharp, suffocating knot tightens in my throat, stealing my breath.

He says it so casually, as if it's no big deal. And maybe it shouldn't be a big deal. Maybe I even understand why he kept it from me. After all, I’ve been hunting him. If he had told me, I would have been faced by the choice between him and my goal, between love and betrayal. I can’t blame him for hiding the truth.

Of course, he hid it. He had to, just like I had to.

But knowing that doesn't stop the bitter taste from crawling up my throat. It isn’t fear or anger that claws at me.

It’s jealousy. Ugly jealousy. She knew. Chloé knew who he was all along.

She saw that side of him—the real him—and I didn't. She saw his truth and darkness, while I saw walls and careful lies that tangled with mine.

And here I am, high as hell, twisting everything into excuses just to make it hurt less, trying to convince myself that his secrecy was about safety. The worst is that despite everything deep down I know it’s the truth.

I take my eyes off of him and look down at Dumpster on my lap as I twirl her fur between my fingers, soothing the raging storm inside me.

"Don't you feel bad about what you do?"

"No." His answer is immediate, blunt, and hits me like a slap across the face.

"How?" I whisper.