He smirked and pushed a glass of water across the table so she could reach it. “Three.”
Tension vibrated her shoulders. Three was fewer calories, but it wasn't four. His smirk meant he knew how much she depended on that number. So much for being difficult. She opened her mouth, too tired to dwell on numbers or the fact that he was creeping her out by feeding her.
He slid the fork between her lips, and a zest of full-bodied seasonings mingled over her tongue. Spicy but not too hot, the taste of Mexico melted in her mouth. He watched her with an expectant expression as she chewed.
His last name was Quiso. His pale gray eyes looked European, but with his dark hair and tanned skin, he could easily have a little Mexican in his woodpile.
After he fed her two more bites, she asked, “Did your mother teach you how to cook?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in the clipped tumble of huffs. “If Isadora couldn't smoke it or inject it, she didn't bake it.”
Oh. He'd said she was dead. She gripped the towel covering her lap, curiosity scrabbling at her tongue. “Your father—”
The fork clanked against the plate. He stared at the table, eyes shuttering as his silence tightened around her. She tensed for the impact of his fist. But what he hit her with was far more jarring.
“He was a human trafficker like me.” His empty voice coiled the tension in the room. “Brought me into the business when I was twenty-five.” He looked up. “When Austin appointed him Chief of Police.”
She stopped breathing, her head spinning with the biggest news story to come out of Austin. Police Chief linked to the kidnapping and rape of two missing persons.
“Eli Eary,” she whispered.
“Good ol' Dad. Quality role model for Austin's youth.” Disgust and sarcasm layered his tone, but it also held an edge of sadness.
His father trafficked slaves. His mother was a drug addict. She looked at him, really looked into his insidious silver eyes. What must they have seen in his thirty-something years? Had he spent his entire life in a dark light, dragging the sins of his parents behind him? How could he not be anything but fucked up?
Don't make excuses for him, Amber.
He dug into the food and spoke while he chewed. “You followed the news story?”
“Some. He kidnapped that girl and held her for years. And the football player from Baylor.” Enslaved them in a suburban house doing unimaginable things to them. “They shot him.”
“Yep.” He leaned back in the chair and leveled her with his luminescent gaze. “Don't remember their names, do you?”
She shook her head, dread creeping into her bones.
He chewed, swallowed. “Liv Reed and Joshua Carter.”
Liv and Joshua got away. They all got away.
The trembling started in her chest and rippled to her arms and legs. They lived right next door all this time? The reason he was on her porch?
She could guess why he'd returned for them, and it slammed her heart into a laborious frenzy. Even if she could return home and save her mortgage, would she feel safe living beside Liv and Joshua? Van would come back for them. For her.
“You should really get out more.” He raised a glass of water to his lips, grinning.
She choked, wanting to argue this unbelievable story. “The news reports said he worked alone.” Her voice strangled, rising in pitch. “There wasn't any mention of a son.”
He drained the glass, set it down, and leaned in to stroke her jaw. “Because I don't exist.”
As Amber paled and scooted her ass away inch by inch, Van questioned the brilliance of telling her who he was. He put his elbows on the kitchen table and rubbed his aching head. Despite how familiar he'd become with her strained fearful look, she now stared at him through new eyes. He already told her he'd trafficked slaves. Apparently, connecting him to the infamous Eli Eary had sent her over the edge. Literally.
She'd scooted so far, she fell over the side of the chair and crashed to the floor, giving him a glorious view of all her taut little lines and curves beneath the splayed towel. He bit his lip, halting his grin. Her clumsiness in these frazzled moments was such a contrast to the image of her decorously posed on a stage.
With a huff, she jumped to her feet and retied the knot at her chest. “What do you mean, you don't exist?”
Here we go. He'd opened the door. Might as well give her a tour of the shit hole. He dug a toothpick from his pocket and slid it between his teeth. “Eli Eary—we called him Mr. E—never mentioned me to anyone in his lawful life.”
“Why not? You're his son.”
“The bastard son of his first slave. Not something you brag about over donuts at the police station.” He gnawed on the toothpick. “And in his criminal life, I only existed to the slave buyers—who don't talk because they're dead. And the slaves—who don't talk because they killed the buyers.”