Page 32 of Craving Sin

He sighs, looks at the eggs again, and says, “Fuck off,” a second time.

“Yes, Rian. I’d be happy to help you.”

He steps aside, leaning against the counter. “How many do you want?”

“Three.” He grabs a skillet as I crack enough eggs for both of us into a bowl.

Rian nudges me out of the way, but instead of going back to the chair, I sit on the counter as he pours a little bit of milk into the bowl.

“Have you always been…a criminal?” I ask, not sure how else to word it.

“Are you trying to be my friend now?”

“No. I’m trying to at least have someone to hold a conversation with before I die. Your friend was…not receptive.”

Rian chuckles. “He’s very particular about who he lets in and who he trusts, but once you’re in, there’s nothing he won’t do for you. I would trust him with my life.”

“Seems dangerous to trust a killer with your life.”

Rian begins whipping the eggs. “That’s because you don’t understand us. You see only one part of who we are. Conan’s a good man.”

Conan. So that’s what his name is.

“But you’re not?” I ask. He told me he wasn’t not very long ago.

“Not particularly. We’re not talking about me, though.”

Still, he’s on my mind. Why does Rian think the cold man who left earlier is good, but he isn’t?

“How long have you known him?” I find myself asking, as Rian pours the eggs into the skillet, then drops bread into the toaster before using his good hand to cook.

“Most of my life. I get that you see the world in black and white, Abbott, but that’s not the world I live in. Yes, he would do things that are unforgivable to you, but he’s the kind of man who has loved the same woman for as long as I’ve known him, even though she doesn’t feel the same. And any time she needs him, he is always there. He treats her children like his own, despite the fact that had my brother known when he was alive, he would have been killed for it.”

“Your brother? Jesus. He would have been angry at him for helping his own kids?”

“Yes,” I reply simply. “It’s how we were raised.”

How they were raised. Is Rian the same? “What about you? Is that how you raised your son? Or kids, if you have more than one?” He mentioned a son when I called him a homophobe on the first day.

“Just my son.” I’m surprised he’s answered honestly, and I find that I want to know more. Something about him has me curious, like I want to gobble up any bits of information about him that I can. It will be good to share with the police—when or if I get out of here. That’s what I tell myself, but really, I just want a fuller picture of this man who has turned my world upside down and plans to end my life. “I raised him the way I needed to. And his mother…well, she was incredible. We were lucky to have her.”

He’s still got his back to me while he stands at the stove, stirring the eggs. I see his spine stiffen, though, feel the air in the room thicken with what tastes like pain.

The was in his sentence echoes between us.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, but Rian doesn’t answer. “I know how it feels to lose a mom, and I’m sorry your son had to go through that. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

“So, you wouldn’t wish it on me?” he asks, turning around.

This time, I’m the one who doesn’t respond. I’m not sure what I would even say. I hate him. I wish I had never met him. But I don’t want him to hurt. I don’t want anyone to hurt.

“Are you close with him?” I find myself asking. “Your son?” Whoever the kid is, I hope he at least has a father who loved him after losing his mom.

Rian sighs. “I haven’t been a good father to him—not after…well, not after,” he says again. “But I love my son. There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for him…which is why I won’t die…or go to prison. You can’t kill me, Abbott, remember that. Not when I have unfinished business with my son.”

There is nothing taunting about what he just said. He isn’t telling me that to get under my skin. It’s like he wants me to understand why all of this is happening, why there’s nothing he won’t do to get out of the situation we’re in, even though that means me dying.

And even though I still refuse to let that happen, refuse to give up, there’s a part of me that respects him for it—that can feel the love he has for his son, even though I don’t want to think of him being the kind of man who can love someone at all. It’s easier that way.