Page 11 of Entwined With You

Chapter Four

My words seem to hang in the air between us, and I sit up straighter, making a point of meeting his eyes without flinching. I expect him to yell at me. To toss excuses at me. To do anything and everything to convince me that he isn’t a man who once killed the woman he loved.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, I watch as his shoulders sag. As silence lingers between us. His head drops, and for a moment—one terrifying, beautiful moment—I see the depth of the danger I’m opening myself up to here. Because this is a man I want to trust. A man that a girl named Sabrina had loved with all her heart.

But I’m smarter than that girl. That foolish, dead girl.

I know better than anyone how few people truly reflect who they are inside. Everyday, we’re walking through a world of strangers. On a subway. At work. Taking a kid to school. Having lunch with your gal pals.

No one’s ever really who you see.

I didn’t used to know that. Now, I know it only too well.

It’s a hard lesson, and an unpleasant one. But once you wrap your head around it, the world is so much simpler because there’s only one rule. One inviolate truth. A truth that makes the world a hell of a whole lot easier to navigate.

Don’t trust anyone.

I lean forward, “What’s the matter?” I press. “Taking longer than you expected to conjure a few fake tears?”

He lifts his head, and though I’m expecting fury, all I see is pain in his hazel eyes.

“Do you think I don’t feel like it was my fault every single day?” His voice is soft and heavy. As if he’s traveled back those fifteen years and is now pushing the words out from that great distance. “I didn’t kill her. But I still have to remind myself of that every minute of every day.”

I hear the pain in his voice, but I’m not moved. He drags his fingers through his hair, his face appearing to have aged twenty years in the last twenty seconds. “Do you think a moment goes by where I don’t go over all the what-ifs in my head? I would have been in that van with her if I’d only ignored the damn text. Maybe I would have seen something. Heard something. Gotten us both out of the damn van.”

I frown. Text? This is new. But is it real or is it bullshit? Considering who I’m sitting across from, I’m guessing it’s bullshit.

I want to ignore it; I’m sure he’s just baiting me. But then I hear myself asking, “What text?” And in the space between my question and his answer, I feel the unwelcome flutter of hope’s soft wings.

For years, I’ve believed that he was complicit. Maybe he didn’t place the bomb, but he knew. Dammit, he knew. He knew and he stood there on the sidewalk as the last seconds of life ticked away from the woman he loved. He didn’t raise a gun or pull a knife or strangle her in bed one hot and humid evening. But he was still just as guilty.

He stood there. He knew.

And because he didn’t do a goddamn thing, she’s dead now. Gone from the world. Erased completely, without even a buried body or a memorial stone. Just one simple death certificate filed in Los Angeles County. One piece of paper to mark the passing of a life that was stolen from her.

“What text,” I repeat. “What are you talking about?”

He drags his fingers through his hair. “Sabrina told you about the heist?”

I force myself to meet his eyes when I answer. “She told me everything. Or,” I add, “at least she said she did.”

“Then you know that she and I had a couple of jobs. One had to do with the getaway.”

“Go on.”

“One of the guys was in a car near the service entrance to the museum. And once Darrin and the inside team got the Sisters, they’d leave through that entrance and get into the car.”

“I know,” I say. “It was all worked out. Security system circumvented. That was you and Brina. Everyone would go in as cleaners or security personnel. Once the security system was off, Darrin and Tim would replace the stones with counterfeit. You and Brina would be out by then. You’d ditch your security uniforms and get to the van.”

The plan runs through my head like a movie. “Meanwhile, the guy driving the getaway car—what was his name?”

“Jorge.”

“Right. He’d be on a street nearby. It was all timed, so he’d pull up and Darrin and Tim would slide in. Then Jose—”

“Jorge,” he corrects.

“Sorry. Of course.” I know the name just fine. But Samantha probably wouldn’t have. “Anyway, Jorge would get out of there. Except it wasn’t the only getaway car. There was the van.”