His neck and face redden, and his eyes dart away. “Leila,” he sighs, “I didn’t mean that.” He sits back in his seat. “You’re both my family. You’re my sister, and even if I don’t show it, I always feel it. You know what I mean?”
He waits for my nod and keeps going.
“And I always worry about you. But I worry about him too. Leila,” he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees, “what we’ve been through together—” He shakes his head, looking for the right words. “It binds people, you know. Not only years of service but losing our team and surviving. Only us. You know. No one else. Why are we alive while they aren’t anymore? That’s the question I’ll be asking for the rest of my life.”
“That’s a lot of survivor’s guilt,” I tell him. “It must be hard.”
“It is, but it is what it is. I’m used to living with that. But—” he cuts himself off. “But our guilt is different,” he says meaningfully.
“How is that?”
He sighs and looks at the ceiling. “Because I was a team leader, and they died under my watch.” He rakes his hand through his already messy hair. The gesture nervous and uneasy. “But Archie might be the reason why they’re dead.”
He meets my eyes, probably voicing his fears for the very first time in his life. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a tug of disappointment, but it actually makes sense—the guilt he’s carrying, the suicidal thoughts, everything. There’s only so much a person can take, and he reached that point. Everyone would.
A feeling of tranquility settles in my chest, and I smile at Alex. I’ll dig for as much information as I can, and yes, I’m a reporter and I write facts. No matter what I find, I’ll help him get through it. I will not leave Stephan alone. Besides loving him as a man—yes, I’ve admitted and accepted the fact—I love him as a friend. He introduced me to a feeling of real connection with another human being. The sort of connection that comes from within. He’s a part of my life now.
“What I just said didn’t change the way you feel about him, did it?”
“No,” I state firmly.
“Cool.” His short nod is one of silent approval. “Then let’s get this over with so you can write this article. I sure hope you’ll find something different from what we’ve been thinking all these years.”
I sure hope so too, Alex.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LEILA
The trip to Boston is long. Thank goodness Kenneth lent me his truck, because I hate driving in the snow, and his big vehicle seems safer. Yes, I know I live in Maine and we’ve got tons of it. Still not a fan. Plus, I’m a nervous wreck. The article in my purse seems to weigh a ton. The paper itself weighs nothing, but the content is heavy. I started this story without his permission. I didn’t tell him that I was going to do it, but Alex was a participant too, and his story is just as important.
Besides that, I’ve found something that might put a target on my back. Not that that was anything new to me. So many things were happening around their unit around the same time, and the focus was lost. It was my job to find it. But what I found was waymore than I anticipated, and now I don’t know what to do with the information.
My publisher is set to release the story tomorrow morning, and I have the draft copy. I want Stephan to see it first. He might never forgive me for it, but that’s okay. As long as he forgives himself.
I drive to his house first. Kayla gave me the address and packed me a huge lunch to go. She’s adorable, and I’m very grateful for her, but I couldn’t eat a bite—too nervous to swallow anything but coffee.
As I pull into his driveway, I whistle. His house is not just a house, it’s a damn Victorian masterpiece. Huge. And I meanhuge. I’m pretty sure even Freya’s whole PTSD center is smaller. Bushes covered in snow, line the path all the way to his door. Massive evergreens frame his property. And the building itself is gorgeous. Made of red brick with a huge double door, it reminds me of a castle from the fairytales. A beast’s castle. Despite his house being absolutely breathtaking, it doesn’t give me homey vibes. Quite the opposite—it puts me in a foul mood. Once the beauty settles in, the grim starts creeping in.
I park and get out of the car. Looking around, I notice that there are tracks from only one car, most likely his Rover. I walk to the door and ring the bell. I ring it a few times, but no one comes to open it, nor do I hear any sign of life. I knock with the same result.
I didn’t want to call, giving him a heads up and a chance to escape, so that is out of the question.
All right then, Kayla gave me the parlor address too, so I go back to the car and take off.
It’s five p.m., so it should be open. Kayla mentioned that they work different hours than other businesses.
I find his parlor on one of the busiest streets in the city. My friends and I used to go here when I was in college in Boston: thestreet is alive during the day and at night, with tons of bars and tourist traps.
His parlor takes up half of the first floor of a huge building—color me impressed, but that’s a lot of success for a tattoo place. A pang of pride sparkles in my chest for what he’s accomplished as a businessman.
FRAGILE LIVES.The black, neon letters with a red shadow greet me as I open the door. How very fitting.
“Hey, how can I help you?” A young woman, covered in tats and piercings, greets me from the receptionist table.
I walk straight to her. “Hi. I’m here to see Archie.”
Her face falls. “Sorry, but he doesn’t take clients.”
