Hansel 4(18)

“I don’t deserve your tears, Leah.”

She wipes her eyes. “Why do you say that?” she asks wetly.

And with that one question, I can tell she knows.





CHAPTER SIX

Leah



He isn’t undeserving of my tears—far from it—but when I open my mouth, that affirmation doesn’t tumble out. Because some part of me doubts its truth? Because of what I suspect about the story of Shelly?

Because I’m selfish, and my question pries.

I know enough about this man to know if I don’t pry, I won’t get any answers. And if there’s one thing I can’t leave Nevada without, it’s answers.

I need to know the truth about who Shelly is to Luke. I need to hear it from his lips.

He sits up in the bed, flexing his shoulders and wincing just a little. I have the urge to rub them, but it’s not the time or place.

He’s eyeing me like he knows what I’ve been thinking. And maybe he does. Maybe he remembers telling me that it was “his fault” I was taken. I can’t believe that’s true, but I need to know.

I stand frozen by the bed while he looks at me. Finally, in a low voice, he says, “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Told me what?” I whisper.

“Told you that it’s my fault.” His gaze dips down to his lap. I watch his shoulders slacken, so his head hangs down a little. He rubs his chapped lips together. Pulls a deep breath in. “It was my fault she took you, Leah. And that’s because I knew you. I knew of you before.”

There’s a Victorian-style, claw-footed chair a few feet away from his bed. I’ve never used it, because I usually sit on the bed beside him. Now I drag it over. I can feel him watching me closely: waiting for me to leave, waiting for any reaction.

I can’t give him one. Because I don’t know how I feel. Because I haven’t heard his story. And the truth is, I’m an optimist at heart. I have to believe he has some way of explaining this—if it’s what I fear it is. And what I fear it is, is horrible.

I watch him slouch, with his bandaged hands in his lap and his dark head down. My heart pumps hard and fast.

“How did you know me?” I whisper as I sit.

It’s such a simple question. But he doesn’t lift his head to answer. And I’m glad. Seconds flit past us, and I’m glad he isn’t looking at me. I don’t want to see his eyes. Maybe I don’t want to know after all.

He looks up at me, and he looks so pale and tired and…weighted. I don’t move a muscle as he takes a deep breath. Then he shifts his hips and butt, moving so he’s facing me.

His mouth opens, but it’s a second before his words come out. He rasps, “I knew your aunt.”

Blood roars between my ears as I nod slowly. “Aunt Shelly.”

His eyes are hesitant and scared. He looks away, then back at me. “You know this story, don’t you?”

I nod quickly.

“The papers called me L.”

I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. He leans over his lap and puts an arm over his head, and I can see his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths.

“She was my social worker,” he says, muffled. “She adopted me because I— couldn’t ever find a home.”

My heart rips as the last word trembles.

“Before she…” He presses his lips flat. His Adam’s apple bobs along the column of his throat as he tries to control himself. “One night.” He breathes deeply. “I…didn’t know. I didn’t know what he planned,” he whispers, looking at his lap.

“You don’t need to tell me.” I lean closer to the bed, wanting to touch him. But he’s not even looking at me. His eyes are closed tightly, as if he’s trying to unsee things.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “You need to know,” he murmurs.

“I remember.”

“You remember it was me?” His words are sharp, like a fire and brimstone preacher. His face writhes, pain twisting the features. “It was me, Leah. I killed Shelly. She was killed because of me.”

I’m going to point out that when he went inside the bathroom at the warehouse, my aunt was already dead. One of the other gangbangers had killed her.

I’m going to say something, but he twists his shoulders and rocks his hips, and after a few seconds of work, he’s turned his back to me. His abs tremble as he lowers himself down onto his side without using his hands for support. His back curves a little as he curls into himself.

No words.

It doesn’t surprise me that he has no words about what happened that night. I was barely in middle school when we lost Aunt Shel, and we lived in Boulder while Shel lived in Vegas. My parents tried to shield us from the details. But the crime was on the national news—how her newly adopted son had lured her to her death in such a brutal fashion. Years later, after I returned from being held captive, I looked up the details of my aunt’s last hours one day when I was feeling dark.