He said, “I think I do know, actually.” And then he said, in the same breath, “Tell me the truth: how often do people tell you you’re beautiful?”
In my experience, when people said you were beautiful, it was always a power move—the moment another person let you know they’d clocked you, that you were a body they’d taken stock of, calculated and assessed. But Don was different. He was a good man who wasn’t supposed to think I was beautiful, because I was younger and his daughter’s friend. But he was saying it anyway, which meant he hadn’t been able to help himself. He was going out on a limb. That made him vulnerable and me the powerful one. It felt like a victory.
So I said, “Like that? Not often.” And he laughed and said he doubted that was true.
Then he said, “But you’d be even prettier with blond hair.”
It stung. The power slipped back out of my hands.
He rubbed his thumb over my cheek, kind of soothingly, and my heartbeat hitched. I knew it was wrong. Laurel and Clem and Rachel were waiting outside, wondering what was taking so long. And there I was, standing in a bar with Rachel’s dad, wanting something I wasn’t supposed to want.
He looked me in the eyes and said, “Tell me your father’s name.”
I was surprised but said, “He barely counts. But his name was Peter.”
He leaned in and said, in a low voice, like a secret, “You can tell me anything, you know. Feel however you want to feel. It’s only natural. Give yourself a break.”
My heart was racing… I couldn’t tell if he knew what I really wanted. Then he whispered, “If you want to call me Don, or Dad, or Peter, do it. Anything you want, okay? Don’t worry so much. Whatever makes you feel good.” Then he put his arm around my waist and kind of pushed me toward the door. He said, “Go home with your friends, young lady.”
JAMIE: And none of that struck you as strange?
SHAY: It did. But not an off-putting strange. A strange that intrigued me. The truth is, I wanted to know what he thought of me. I even wanted him to tell me what to do. Back then I was kind of lost. And half in love with the version of him from my daydreams.
（Silence.）
（Throat clearing.）
JAMIE: Maybe we should quit for now. It’s late. I can hear in your voice how tired you are. Your eyes are barely staying open.
SHAY: But I have to tell you the next part…
（Heavy breathing.）
When we went to his house…
End of transcript.
***
I woke, squinting, as Jamie bent over me, his face close to mine for the first time since the hot baths. I didn’t know what he was doing, but I was too tired to care. I felt a blanket, stiff with starch but warm, slide up my shoulders. He was tucking me in.
My voice was small and faraway. “I can leave.”
“Shh,” he said and settled on the floor.
Chapter Ten
I went back to Tongue-Cut Sparrow the next night, ignoring Cal’s calls and lying to Jamie, telling him I didn’t feel well. In a way, it was true: ever since waking up in his hotel room with Don’s unburied name thick in my throat, I’d burned feverish to do something. Make progress, no matter the risk. Saying Don’s name out loud for the first time in years had sparked something back to life—cracked opened the door to the past—and I needed it dead and closed as quickly as possible. But I couldn’t do that until I found out the truth about Laurel.
I knew part of that truth was waiting at the Sparrow. It was an instinct, a recognition that had welled inside me when the woman in the hot bath whispered what she could do to me. I didn’t like it, but I knew why Laurel might have been drawn to this.