"What does that have to do with me?" Heartless as any response could ever be after hearing a confession like that, she continues walking. Does she have nothing left inside of her to feel for other people? If so, she’s more like me than I originally thought.
Regardless of how much I don't want to talk about my life or my past, it's made me who I am, and if I'm willing to share, maybe I can retrieve a bit of insight from her, as well. At this point, it's basically just knowledge to satiate my curiosity of what happened to the woman I sat next to in class. I can’t turn her in. I’d rather go back to prison than destroy her life.
"After shooting my mom, my dad shot himself in the head, right in front of me. I was covered in his blood. It was like someone had hit me with a water balloon filled with red paint. It was all I could smell, taste, and feel for months after. I stood over both of my parents’ dead bodies, wondering when they were going to pop up and tell me they were just playing a good guy/bad guy game. I waited two full days alone in my house until a neighbor knocked on the door. Still in my blood-covered clothes, I answered the door. It wasn't until that moment when I saw the horrified look on Mrs. Helmsly's face that I knew my parents weren't playing a game."
Isabelle finally slows her pace as she likely digests the details of my gory childhood. Her head is still lifted, and there isn't a loss of confidence in any part of her body language, but I’d rather her be like that because my objective isn’t to break her down. I'm trying to show her that other people are given shitty lives too.
She glances over her shoulder at me with her eyes wide and a film of tears lining her bottom lashes. "Then what?"
I take her by the elbow and lead her to the end of the street we're on, finding a cut through to a grassy area and an empty bench settled in a small patch of grass. I try to forget about Everett still trying to hunt Isabelle down, but I gather he’s the reason she ran, so I'll let him continue hunting for a little while longer before I send him another message.
"Well, I didn’t have other family. My grandparents had already passed, and my parents were both only children. I was placed into the State’s care and moved from foster home to foster home. I never got adopted, but I did get the shit beat out of me at two of the eight houses I lived at between the ages of six and eighteen."
She lifts my hand that's been resting on my knee and holds it up in front of her. "Where did these come from?" she asks, pointing to the dozens of scars lining my knuckles.
"After getting beaten so badly by one of my foster dads, that I landed in the hospital for a week, I started training myself to fight back."
Isabelle places my hand back down on my knee and wraps her arms around her shoulders. It didn't even dawn on me that she doesn't have a coat or anything to keep her warm. It's sure as hell warmer here than in Boston, but the chill is biting. I remove my coat and wrap it around her shoulders. "Thank you," she says in a hush.
"Is that what landed you in prison?" she asks after a moment’s hesitation.
Her question surprises me. Not because I forgot she knew about my prison time, but because I had my anger problem under control way before the night I was arrested for homicide.
"Ironically, no," I tell her.
"Then, why were you in there?" She still isn't giving me much empathy, but her questions lead me to believe I've at least scratched the surface of her iced-over soul.
"I was blamed for a bar fight that went south. The guy who caused it got it away, and I was standing too close. Along with that, I evidently looked like the perfect prototype for a convict."
"So, you're innocent?" she asks.
"Yeah," I sigh.
"Me too," she says.
"Isabelle." I take her hand and warm it between mine. "You can't leave." I'm aware that my statement sounds more like a plea than a dictation, but she has to understand that she doesn't have the option to run away like she apparently tried to.
"Don't call me that," she says, her voice sounding against her words. "I can't stay."
"Why?" It's like a battle of the minds right now. I know I won't be able to convince her to do anything she doesn't want to do, which means I'll have to become forceful, and that will complicate things to a degree that I don't even want to consider.
She twists her head to look at me, seeming breathless against the evident thoughts beating her down. "I was offered an internship," she says. "An internship, Axel. You know … a type of job that doesn't pay you but works you to the bone just so you can say you walked away with some experience?"
"With Dr. Phillips?" I ask, careful not to give up more information than I should know about her.
"Yeah, he was only taking three interns, and I couldn't believe it when he hired me as one of them."
I want to continuously sit here and ask what happened after that, but there's a part of me that is afraid to know the truth. What if she was sitting there when Phillips murdered all those people? It would justify what I've been hired to do, but if I find out that she's as innocent as I am, I'm going to have to give it all up—probably my life too. Agent Roberts doesn't strike me as a forgiving type.
"I better let Everett know I have you," I tell her.
"No," she snaps, standing up from the bench as she wraps my coat tightly around her shoulders. "Just because we shared bits and pieces of our pasts doesn't mean I want to stay, Axel. This isn't what I want to be doing, not anymore.
"But you're good at what you do," I tell her.
"Yeah, and how exactly did you know that when you hired me?"
23
Harley
The way Axel is looking at me is as if he doesn't have an answer to my question or doesn't want to answer me. No matter what the reason is, I’m not loving this moment.
"I asked you how you knew about my skills?" I repeat.
"We were in class together, remember?" he finally comes back with.
"No, that's not cutting it," I tell him. "So, here's the thing, Axel, you obviously know I have intelligence skills, which is why you hired me. This, of course, brings up a whole other set of questions we should probably go over." This situation with Axel and Everett took me by storm and it's taken me a bit to roll out the questions in my head, but probably because things aren't adding up—or they are adding up, just too perfectly for my comfort.
I stand up from the bench and peel his jacket off my shoulders. "Either start explaining, or I'll make sure I can't be found again."
Axel stands up too, hovering over me like he has something profound to say, but with a long pause before saying anything, it seems like he’s at a loss for words. "Isab—"
"Stop. Don't call me that, again."
I pivot to walk off and he grabs my arm as I figured he would. I'm not big on the cat and mouse game, but I'm not big on secrets either. "I can't let you out of my sight," he says.
"Tough," I tell him, pulling my arm from his grip. "I didn't agree to be your piece of property."
"I don't want you to be a piece of property," he says, firmly.
Bull. I know his type. I've been around him long enough to know exactly what he wants. "I offered you this position because I knew you could help," he says.
"So, it was just a coincidence that I happen to apply for your sketchy job posting hanging on an empty storefront window?"
I stop and turn, needing to see whatever look might be playing through his face when he comes up with a response. I should have figured he’d maintain a straight face, though. All he gives me is a blank stare. It's infuriating.
"Fate happens," he pulls out.
I storm up to him, unashamed to be staring up rather than down on him. "There is no such thing as fucking fate. Fate is a fairytale, and I don't believe in that horse shit, so don't even try it with me."