“He said you were dangerous.”
Ben sucked on his cheek. “Makes sense he would say that—it’s all he’s ever known from me. You two a thing now?”
I shook my head.
“That’s for the best, I imagine.”
“Why?”
He looked at me for a long time and then shook his head.
“Because he’s my son,” he said. “And some apples don’t fall far from the tree.”
“Dylan’s not dangerous.”
“If you honestly think that, then you don’t know the whole story.”
“I know Dylan.”
He looked at me for a long time like he was trying to talk himself out of something. Or into something. “You can’t go walking around thinking he’s something he’s not. You can’t keep thinking he’s…tame.”
“If you’re going to tell me something, Ben, just do it. I’ve kind of had a long few days.”
Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He was arrested when he was a kid. Sixteen. He and his brother got into trouble for stealing cars. Illegal racing. Dylan went to jail. Juvie. It was supposed to be a short sentence; he…he was a good kid. Never in trouble. But in jail he changed. He was fighting. A lot of it. More and more violent. Until he stabbed a kid—”
“You’re lying.” I held up my hand as if I could get him to shut up. As if I could shove those words back down his throat.
“I’m not. I’m not lying. And he didn’t tell you, did he?”
“Shut up, Ben! Shut up, you’re just…this is a game you’re playing. Some awful way to punish Dylan. To get me not to care. Something—”
“I don’t give a shit if you care for him. I’m telling you not to trust him. Not to trust…yourself with him.”
I wanted to yell and scream that Ben was lying. That I knew Dylan, I knew what mattered, knew the soul-deep goodness of him. Dylan and Ben might both be closed up, locked down, hiding a kindness they didn’t entirely trust within themselves.
“He’s not like you. He wouldn’t do what you have done.”
Ben was watching me, with those eyes that I recognized in Dylan’s face. Deep-set, heavy-lidded. Eyes that saw everything.
“Ask me,” he said. “I know you’ve wanted to for a while.”
“Did you know about the little girl? In the house?”
He slowly shook his head. “I didn’t.” A long, ragged breath sawed out of his chest. “I wish I had more than anything else in my life—I wish I had known that girl was there.”
I understood that I had a will to believe the things that made my life easier. That fit the way I needed to live in my world, and yes, it was easier to believe that Ben—a man I liked, Dylan’s father—did not kill an innocent girl in cold blood. And I should have, perhaps, doubted my belief. My faith.
But I didn’t. I believed Ben was telling the truth.
Did that also mean I had to believe Ben about Dylan?
I was torn in half. My head pounded. My heart ached.
“Dylan said he didn’t think you knew the girl was there,” I said, wondering if the words would bring him any peace. Or me.
What would bring me peace?
“You look so tired you’re about to collapse,” he said. “Go lie down.”
“But—”
“Go. We can talk later.”
Right. Okay. It was too much. The last few days were too full and I was officially overwhelmed. I turned slowly, the bag of food banging into my leg. “Oh,” I said. “I brought you some stuff. Would you like—”
I pulled out half a cantaloupe covered in Saran Wrap. A small piece of Dylan’s world in this unlikely place. I offered it to Ben.
“No, girly. You take that stuff. I got all I need.” Those were nearly the exact words Smith would have said, and I nodded, my throat swollen. Why, I wondered, thinking of Smith and Dylan and Ben, were the men in my life so good at self-denial? So good at holding at arm’s length the things they wanted?