But that’s not what hurts the most.
It’s the fact that, even after getting to know me, Waylon still believes there’s a meanness in me, buried deep. That there’s something nocturnal that slithers out in the dark; something with a bloodlust that needs to be quenched. He really believes that I walked into Mason’s nursery that night and did something to him, something terrible. Something so bad my own conscious mind has blocked it out, refusing to remember, the same way I did something to Margaret.
But still, that’s not the worst of it.
The worst of it is that now, with a startling certainty, I believe it, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I’m downtown near The Grit’s office, the oak trees lining a long street of historic brick condos. They’re expensive, I can tell. The types of houses people buy not for the house itself but for the connotation of it. The types of houses that exude money and status—sort of like The Grit itself, I guess. So in a way, it makes sense that Ben has chosen to live here. It fits the image.
I reach his stoop and climb the steps, glancing at my watch. I was hoping to catch him before work, on his way out, but I might have missed him. If he’s not here, I’ll just have to wait. Then I take a deep breath and ring the bell, hearing the buzz from inside, my hands punched into my pockets. After a few minutes of silence, I get ready to turn around, walk down the steps, and try again later, when suddenly, the door flies open.
Ben is laughing, like he’s mid-conversation, and I watch as his smile fades as he takes me in.
“Isabelle,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“Do you have a second? I was hoping we could talk.”
“Uh, no,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “No, not really. I’m running late for work.”
“It’s important—”
“Ben?” I hear a voice from somewhere inside. It’s a woman’s voice, young and flirty, and I bow my head, trying to hide my reddening cheeks. It’s her. “Ben, are you out there? Who is it?”
“Nobody,” he calls over his shoulder. “Just a second.”
We stand in silence, both of us too embarrassed to look the other in the eye. Nobody. I’ve walked in on something, I can tell. A Tuesday morning spent together, and I wonder if this is just a coincidence—if maybe they drank too much last night and stumbled back here together, deciding to crash at his place instead of calling a car—or if she lives here, too. If he just bounced that quickly from me to her, the same way he did from Allison to me.
I poke my head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse into his home.
“So, what is it, Isabelle?” he says, leaning on the doorframe, trying to obscure my view. “What brings you here this early on a Tuesday morning?”
“I just had some questions,” I say. “About, you know, that night…”
“Jesus,” he says, lowering his head. He’s pinching the skin between his eyes, hard, like I’m a migraine he’s trying to fight off. “Are you kidding me?”
“It’s important—”
“Isabelle, you need to let this go.”
“Are you saying that because that’s what’s best for me?” I ask. “Or because you think I don’t want to know the truth?”
Ben stares at me, his head cocked to the side. “What does that mean?”
I think about all the other times he’s looked at me like this—on Dr. Harris’s couch, his hand on my knee; in our living room at dusk as I stood planted by the window, my eyes glassed over—searching my expression for something long-since lost: a flicker of recognition, maybe. A glimpse of knowledge. A memory lodged somewhere deep in my subconscious, trying to claw its way out.
“I think you know what it means,” I say. “Look, Ben, if you’re trying to protect me or something—”
I stop, my mind back in Beaufort again. On my father and the way he had looked at me, too. The way he had covered for me, lied for me, because the truth, he knew, would kill me. Maybe that’s why Ben has been so adamant about trying to get me to move on. Maybe that’s why he’s been trying to convince me to stop searching, stop hoping.
Because he knows it’s pointless. He knows the truth.
“If you know something about what happened and you’re just afraid to say it … please,” I say, pleading now. “I have to know. I can’t wonder like this forever. I can’t—”
Before he can respond, the door opens wide, and a woman appears behind him. She’s wearing one of his work shirts—a white button-up, the collar half popped—her dark hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. She’s smiling politely, barefaced and beautiful, as she puts her hand on his shoulder and pushes herself into view.