Page 73 of Blood Queen
Truman.
He’s wearing his typical suit, hands in his pockets, his jaw clenched. He looks like he’s been through hell—his hair a bit disheveled, his eyes dark with the kind of exhaustion I’ve onlyseen in people who are holding a weight too heavy to bear. The moment his eyes meet mine, my chest fractures.
“You look like you’ve been fighting a war,” he breathes, his voice rough.
I can’t hold it together anymore. Not with him standing there, not after what’s happened, not with all the blood on my hands. My legs go weak, and I collapse, sinking into him, letting him catch me. It feels like I’m drowning, like the world is closing in on me, and Truman is the only failsafe keeping me from slipping away.
“Hey… you’re safe now, okay? You’re safe,” he murmurs, his voice soothing, but there’s a tremor in it I know too well. He’s scared. Just as scared as I am.
I can’t bring myself to look up at him. I can’t let him see how broken I am, but I know he feels it. I feel the way he holds me tighter, his strong arms wrapping around me, pressing me against his chest as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.
“I—I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to drag you into it,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The words are a confession, an apology, a cry for help, all tangled up in one. “I never wanted you to be part of this… this nightmare.”
Truman doesn’t answer immediately. He just holds me, letting me sob into his shirt, the weight of everything pouring out of me. The tears feel endless, but with each one, I feel the tension in my body loosen just a little. I can feel his heartbeat—steady and sure—under my ear, and I hold onto that steady rhythm like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
When I finally pull back, Truman wipes the tears from my cheeks, his hands gentle but insistent.
“Don’t apologize.”
He’s so calm, so steady. It only makes the storm inside me rage harder. I want to scream, to break everything in sight.But I don’t. I stay silent, trying to hold onto the last shred of composure I have left.
“I… I can’t keep running, Truman. I can’t do this anymore.”
Truman’s grip tightens for a moment, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. “You don’t have to. We’ll figure it out, okay?”
I shake my head, wiping my face, trying to regain some control. “What do I do?”
Truman’s brow furrows. Marcy sets down two mugs on the coffee table. Motions for us to sit.
“Marcy,” Truman says. “Should have known you were involved.”
I put a hand on Truman’s chest. “Don’t.”
His jaw ticks. “I told you both, all those years ago, exactly what we should have done. Go to the FBI. And you,” he lifts his chin at Marcy, “shat all over that idea.”
Marcy’s face falls. She nods. “You’ve every right to be pissed Truman. But how could I know how far Evany was going to take this? I thought I was just getting information. Just writing the true crime book of the ages.”
Truman snorts. “I knew. I. fucking. Knew.” Truman’s shaking with anger. I wrap an arm around him.
“Please. Can we not fight. This was no one’s choice but mine. Be mad at me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of it. But that doesn’t change right now. What the hell do I do?”
Marcy and Truman stare at each other, faces set hard.
“You go to the FBI,” Marcy finally relents.
“I know a guy,” Truman says.
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Eli,” he says.
“Eli?” I echo.
My mind races, the words spinning through my thoughts, but none of them seem to land. The air in the small living room feels thick, suffocating. I can feel Truman’s anger still simmeringbeside me, and Marcy is just a few feet away, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she’s waiting for something to break.
“Let me make a call.” Truman walks to the door, his hand on the knob. My stomach roils. Marcy pushes my mug of tea toward me.
It’s two days later when Eli shows up to Marcy’s house. My stomach, a perpetual coiled ball of dread, has kept me up every night, no matter how Truman tries to distract me.
