I wish I could say I was surprised.
“He got home last night, and I don’t know... something seemed different,” Leo continues. “I know he’s dealing with a lot, with me moving out and with what happened with you, but he was just next-level whatever, talking about packing up and going back to Florida.”
My stomach drops. “Florida?”
“Yeah, he said he’s got work to do down there, but I don’t know... feels kind of like he’s running, which is very much not Lorenzo.”
Yeah, that’s not Lorenzo at all.
“So, the library, you said?”
I step by him, heading down the hallway.
“Uh, yeah, but he’s not really feeling... hospitable.”
The door is closed. I see that as I approach. Not a stitch of light filters out from the crack beneath it, which means if he’s in there, he’s just sitting in the darkness, all alone. I glance back at Leo, and it’s as if he can read my mind, because he gives me a small smile and points toward the living room, saying, “I’ll keep an eye on our girls.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, barely making a sound, before I turn to the closed library door and take a deep breath.
This time, out of respect, I knock.
There’s no sound inside, no footsteps or voices, not a peep at all, like he isn’t there.
I knock again.
Nothing.
A third knock is again met with silence, which tells me I could knock all night and he wouldn’t answer.
Knocking’s pointless.
So instead, I grab the knob and open the door.
He moves fast, reacting.
Right away, I hear a gun cock.
Within seconds, it’s aimed at my chest from across the room.
I don’t move, just standing in the doorway, staring at him. He’s sitting in his chair, glaring my way, his chest rising and falling harshly, nostrils flaring.
He’s furious.
Shadows cover him. I can barely make him out as darkness shrouds the house, night falling around us. He’s dressed in all black, blending into his surroundings. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and I don’t know if he’s been sleeping, because he looks every bit the scary ass brother.
But I’m not afraid of him.
“I knocked,” I say. “You didn’t answer.”
“And that didn’t tell you something?”
“It told me a lot.”
“Yet there you stand.”
“Would you rather I have went away?”
He says nothing.
He’s not going to answer that question.
After a minute or so passes, he lowers the gun. That’s all the answer I need from him. He’s not going to shoot me. If he were, he would’ve done it way back at the start.
Carefully, I push away from the door and stroll into the library, coming closer to him.
I notice right away that the table is turned over, puzzle pieces scattered all along the floor around him. Wordlessly, I grab the table, flipping it back onto its legs. It’s a pain in the ass, heavy, but I manage to get it upright again without any help—which is good, because he doesn’t look like he planned to offer any. I pick up the lamp next, plugging it back in before setting it on the end of the table.
As soon as I turn it on, Lorenzo dramatically winces.
I laugh at his reaction, perching on the end of the table near him as I look around. “What happened to your puzzle?”
“Adam’s dick disappeared.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
He runs his hands down his face, grumbling, “A piece was missing.”
“Oh.” I look at the mess, my chest tightening, not mentioning the fact that it probably got lost the night he fucked me on top of it. “That sucks.”
He laughs bitterly as he tilts his head back, slouching in the chair, stretching his legs out, covering his eyes with his forearm. The gun rests on his thigh, in his lap, his free hand on top of it, keeping it securely in place as his leg steadily moves back and forth. Antsy.
“There’s more to the story,” I say quietly after a moment.
His arm shifts, his eyes meeting mine.
“The Juniper Tree,” I say, holding up the book I bought to show him. “The little boy is reincarnated into a bird, which is born from the tree. The bird sings a song, rats out the stepmother, and she dies as punishment for killing him, before he’s once again reborn into a kid.”
Lorenzo blinks a few times, his voice completely flat as he says, “That sounds like bullshit.”
“Better than the story you told me.”
“I like my version better.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Really?”
Another question that goes unanswered.
“Didn’t think so,” I whisper.
He sits up. Fast. So fast it catches me off guard. I freeze in place as he shoves out of the chair, gripping the gun tightly so it doesn’t fall to the floor. He doesn’t aim it, doesn’t even raise it, instead slamming it down on the table beside me as he stalls in front of me. “What do you want from me, Scarlet? Huh? Haven’t I done enough for you?”
“You’ve done more than enough, but—”
“But,” he says, cutting me off. “There’s always a but, isn’t there? Nothing’s ever good enough as it is; we have to tack on a fucking but.”
I stare him in the face as I set the book down on the table. He’s struggling hard to control himself right now. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but something has him teetering on the edge.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, pressing my palm to his scarred cheek, my thumb gently stroking the rough skin.
He doesn’t like that.
At all.
Instantly, he pulls back, moving out of my reach, anger flickering across his expression. He leaves the gun on the table beside me as he clenches his hands into fists, like he’s about to punch something, like he might find that so much more satisfying at the moment than pumping bullets through whatever it may be.
Not me, though.
He won’t hit me.
You might be sitting there thinking I’m stupid, that I’m insane for thinking that way. A few minutes ago, the guy had a gun aimed at me, so what makes me think he’ll keep his hands to himself?
Well, it’s simple, really... it’s what I told Sasha.
He’s got a heart in his chest.
I see it when I look him in the eyes. I see the agony he feels. He’s tortured, twisted, all tied up in knots. He’s busy beating himself up inside. But most people don’t see that, because they don’t look at him. They turn away from the surface, terrified, because what he shows the world can be downright fucking scary. But if they just took a second to really see him, they’d know what I know.
They’d believe what I believe.
And what I believe is this man is far from being a monster. I’ve lived with monsters. I know them. And maybe, on the surface, Lorenzo falls into that category. Legally defined, he might be a serial killer, or maybe a spree killer... I know he has killed. Who knows how many lives he’s taken—I’m not trying to justify that. Psychologically, they’d probably diagnose him as something dangerous, but I believe the world is wrong about him.
Because I see what they don’t bother looking for, assuming it must not be there.
I see his conscience. I see his compassion.