“What are you doing here?” I asked. I shifted away from the window, trying to get an angle on the door. Like maybe I could run for it, get past him.
For a second, the expression on his face was puzzlement—then understanding washed over him. “You know, don’t you?”
“I asked you what you’re doing here,” I said. I groped behind me and found only the foot of the bed. I gripped it until my knuckles sparked with pain.
“I was looking for you. I couldn’t find you anywhere and then I saw your car here, and the door was open,” he said. “You never came back. No one would tell me where you were.”
“Get out of here,” I said. It came out a pleading whisper.
“Why?” Ethan asked. He knew why. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“Were you just fucking with me?” I asked. Anger surged through me. “Did you think it was funny, sleeping with the woman who put your dad in prison?”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Ethan said. “You were the one who—”
“If I had known who you were, I would never have let you touch me.”
Ethan stepped forward. I stumbled back, and the backs of my thighs hit the mattress. There was nowhere to run. He halted, but his weight was canted forward. The air was thick and close in the room. I had to fight for every full breath.
“I just wanted answers,” Ethan said. “You wouldn’t talk to me if you knew who I was.”
“That letter—” I began.
“I shouldn’t have sent that. My father was dying. I was angry at him. At myself. At you. I wanted to know the truth, that’s all. I never intended to frighten you.” He stepped forward again.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t come closer.”
But he took another step, and now he was within arm’s reach. “We both lied, Naomi. You’ve been lying all along, to everyone.”
“Not to you,” I bit out. “I trusted you.”
He gave a hollow laugh, and I flinched. “You remember what I told you, about that girl I picked up? How she got into my car because she said I seemed trustworthy?”
“I guess we were both idiots,” I said, but he kept talking.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about how that was what my dad had done. Over and over, he’d gotten women to get into his truck. Got them to trust him. I started driving around at night. Stopping for anyone who looked like they might accept a ride. A lot of them didn’t. But I got better at it. I could tell when they’d say yes because they didn’t want to seem rude. When I needed to joke. When I needed to be pushy and when I needed to act like I was sorry to have bothered them.”
My skin prickled. “Did you hurt them?” I asked.
His lip rose in a snarl. “What do you think, Naomi? Do you think I’d hurt someone like that?”
“I don’t know you,” I said levelly. My hand still gripped the footboard. His fingers wrapped around my wrist.
“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” he asked.
“Of course I am,” I whispered.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Every minute of every day,” he said. “I kept waiting to want to hurt those women. I enjoyed it sometimes. Convincing them. It was like they were puzzles I was solving. But no, Naomi. I’ve never hurt anyone like that.”
I searched his eyes for a lie. His expression was guileless. It would be so, so easy to trust those words. But he’d taught me better. “I destroyed your life,” I said. “Of course you want to hurt me.” I could feel my pulse fluttering at the hinge of my jaw.
“I could have spared him,” Ethan said. He was so close I could feel his breath against my face. “The day you were attacked, I saw him. He was supposed to be on a trip, but he came back early. My mom was out of town. I was staying at a friend’s house for the weekend, but I’d forgotten my Game Boy. I biked home to get it, and I saw him. I didn’t want to have to come home, so I left without saying hello. He never knew I was there.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell them I was wrong?”
“Because you saved me,” he said. I looked at him in utter bafflement. “If I let you lie, I didn’t have to tell anyone what I knew. He would go to prison, and I would never have to admit to what I’d seen.”
His fingers were still around my wrist, but the way he gripped me no longer felt like he was holding me still, but like he was anchoring himself. His throat bobbed. His words, when they came, were barbed wire pulled through a wound.
“He’d take me out with him sometimes. Driving around. Sometimes he had someplace to go for work. Other times we just drove. We’d talk, and I’d fall asleep in the back seat. They were some of my favorite memories. And then one time, we came across this woman. She wasn’t going to get in but then she saw me in the back, and I guess I made it seem safer. She was nice. Gave me a candy bar. And then I fell asleep. I woke up because I heard a scream. Except maybe it wasn’t a scream, maybe I was dreaming. That’s what Dad said when he got back in the truck. There was blood on his sleeve. But maybe that didn’t mean anything.”
For the first time, he looked away. His fingers had tightened by degrees around my wrist until pain thrummed dully beneath them, but I didn’t pull away.
“I knew something bad had happened. I didn’t realize exactly what until he was arrested.”
“You told me you were sure that Stahl was a murderer,” I said. I hadn’t understood his insistence, not when the evidence was so ambiguous. Now it made horrible sense.
“That was years before he was arrested,” Ethan said raggedly. “He killed three women in that time. Probably more. If I’d told someone, maybe they would still be alive. But I couldn’t. So when you lied, I didn’t say anything. I’m not angry that you sent my father to prison, Naomi. I’m grateful. You did what I wasn’t brave enough to do. I never wanted to hurt you. I only wanted to understand.”
“And do you?” I asked, scraped empty. “Did you get what you wanted from me?”
“Naomi, please,” he said, two thin words splitting open with the weight of all they contained.
“Get out of here,” I told him.
“Please.” His hand moved down my wrist, fingers sliding under my palm. I pulled my hand away from his. We stood, inches apart, not touching. My fear was gone. Only the electric pulse of anger remained. Every man I’d slept with had been a mistake of one kind or another. The mistake was the point. You couldn’t let someone in without it breaking you, but you could choose the way you broke.
It shouldn’t hurt like this. It shouldn’t feel like this, unless I had felt something I never let myself feel.
His fingertips brushed the hollow of my throat. He pressed his brow against mine and I let him, a feeling that wasn’t quite pain spilling over my skin, tracing the patterns of my scars.
I wrapped his shirt around my fist. I kissed him roughly, my teeth on his lip, his fingers digging into my shoulder in a startled grip, and I pulled him back, pulled him down.
It was rough and fast, anger and hunger and pain. I turned my face away and broke apart, and the cracks were beautiful across my skin.