He seems a bit relieved. “Good. What have you done today?”
“Woke up. Got some coffee. Sat outside a while.” I pull my robe tighter around me, needing some sort of barrier between us. “Received this envelope for you.”
I slide it across the island. He doesn’t touch it. He just glances down at the address label and soaks in reality. When he looks at me again, his eyes are wide.
That sparks my panic. My jaw drops as I try to breathe, try to force air down my constricted throat. My hearing gets blurred, the sounds as he takes a step towards the counter and lifts the offending package dulled by my rapid heartbeat in my ears.
“Did you open this?” he asks.
“No. Should I have?”
He blows out a breath and flops the envelope back on the marble. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a couple of days.”
“Now seems like a good time.”
“Brynne . . .” He looks at the ceiling and then squeezes his eyes closed. “Can we go sit down in the living room?”
“Nope. We can do it right here.”
There’s a good few feet in between us and I add a few more by going to the other end of the island. I have a sick, vile feeling in my stomach that this is not going to be a good conversation, and I don’t want to be so close to him that he can touch me.
Watching his face pull together, reminiscent of being in pain, my heart cracks. I hate seeing him like this, unsmiling, unjoyful. And I have to remember why he feels this way and not go to him, comfort him like I want to, even now.
“I don’t know where to start,” he laments.
I wait for him to continue, to look at me, to say something, but he doesn’t. All that comes out of him are tension-filled exhales and that’s not getting us anywhere.
“Tell me this,” I say, my voice sounding way more controlled than I feel. “Why does that envelope say Nzou on it?”
His gaze snaps to mine, his face ashen. He starts to come around the island, but for every step he takes towards me, I take one back.
“Brynne . . .”
“Why?”
Both hands on the counter, he eyes me warily. “Nzou is my company. I own it.”
My entire body goes weak, my shoulders slumping forward. It makes no sense. “Did you know that’s the name of the company my brother works for? It’s the parent company of his contractor. Of Mandla. Did you know that?”
Again—silence. But he doesn’t have to respond because his silence says it all.
He knew.
Of course he knew. He had to know.
I, too, hold myself steady with both hands against the counter. “Fenton, I . . . I don’t understand.”
“Your brother . . . Brady,” he gulps, “he’s employed by Mandla, a subsidiary of Nzou.”
“I . . . how . . .” The room spins, wobbles, shakes as I try to force the information into a puzzle that makes sense. “I don’t understand.”
“Mandla is a security company working in Zimbabwe.”
I think I’m going to pass out.
My eyes clamp shut to stop the room from rolling and to stop myself from having to watch his reaction. I need words. Only words. Only the truth.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, resting my head against my forearms.
“Mandla was a company of my mother’s. She was from Zimbabwe, from a family of British immigrants. My father met her there on a hunt, like I told you.”
“Pardon my lack of manners,” I say, popping my head up, “but I don’t care about your parents right fucking now.”
“Right. Okay. So Mandla was my mother’s way of pumping my father’s money back into her home country. It was a humanitarian-only company at first, but after she died, we had a group of our people fired on by insurgents. A couple of them died. It’s gotten really murky there in recent years. I knew I was going to have to provide better security for our workers, so I expanded our repertoire to include security as a whole.”
“Fenton,” I sigh, irritation thick in my voice. “Cut to the chase.”
“Brady went with us as a medic in the humanitarian aspect of the mission. Just like you already know, he was helping an injured child when he was abducted.”
The pain on his face matches mine. It’s a cool, twisted vision of grief and I wonder why, exactly, he’s hurt. Does he know more than he’s letting on? Is he sick about having to come clean? Did he know my brother?
“I . . . oh my God,” I sigh, my eyes filling with tears. Anger keeps them from spilling over, an intensity that just builds. “How long have you known who I am?”
“Not long,” he swears, his voice abnormally steady.
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I tried. I wanted to tell you, Brynne, but I was afraid—”
“Afraid of what?” I say, feeling the fury roll through my veins. I latch on to it, grab on to the feeling of being bamboozled by this good-looking liar. “Afraid of telling me the truth? Afraid of telling me you’re the one that left my brother to die?”