"Black at Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)

Chapter 7

Once she'd recognized the voice on the conference audio recording Friday, both Lily and Wyatt had expected he'd go immediately to Williamsburg to find out whom it belonged to. Unfortunately, that hadn't happened as quickly as they'd wanted. Because when he'd tried calling to arrange a meeting, they'd learned Drs. Kean and Underwood, who needed to listen to the recording, had gone away for the holiday weekend. Several other members of their family, many of whom also worked at the same private practice, had gone as well. Meaning there was no one around to tell them how to reach either woman. Since an outside physician was covering any emergency medical calls, the answering service hadn't been helpful, either.

They'd looked up the other speakers in the panel workshop-all of them were from faraway states, one even from another country. None was likely to remember one question from a long-ago convention. Kean, who had seemed to know the person questioning her, was the best bet.

Without a warrant, and with the need for extreme discretion, there hadn't been much they could do. Which was why, instead of leaving on Friday, as she'd expected, as she'd wanted, Wyatt had remained here with her throughout the holiday weekend.

It had been an awkward couple of days. Lily didn't really understand why, but this trip, this time she'd spent with Wyatt, had been more difficult than the times before it. Something had disappeared. Their ease with each other, perhaps. Or the quiet comfort she'd felt from him, the sense of security from knowing he was in the next room.

There had been no more intimate, late-night talks on the patio, no visits to her room to drag her from her night terrors-of which there had been a few. She'd stayed in her bed, telling him she was fine when he'd asked through the door if she was okay the previous night. They had, in fact, almost been tiptoeing around each other since Friday, talking only about the case. Keeping a physical distance, and an emotional one.

You know why.

She tried to ignore that little voice as she showered late Sunday afternoon. Just as she'd been ignoring it all weekend. But she couldn't fool herself forever.

She knew.

In recent months, Wyatt had consoled her and lent her a strong arm. He'd carried her; he'd shielded her. Recently, he'd even begun to verbally spar with her, acknowledging-as Brandon would not-that Lily was strong enough to take it. And, in fact, wanted it.

But then he had pulled her onto his lap Friday when she'd nearly broken down. He had held her close, letting her feel his hard, muscular form, smell the warm aroma of his skin, even share every breath because their mouths were so close. During that unexpected encounter, everything had changed. Everything.

It was probably a good thing she had recognized the voice on the tape at just that moment, for any number of reasons. One of which was that her leaping to her feet in shock had prevented her from doing something crazy. Like, oh, wrapping her arms around his neck, sinking her hands into his thick, dark hair, and tugging his mouth to hers for a crazy-hot kiss that she had fantasized about since she'd first set eyes on his strong mouth.

She'd been fooling herself the other morning, thinking she could ignore the sexual attraction she felt toward the man, or think about it rationally, coolly, and decide if she wanted to act on it. Because there had been nothing rational or cool in that long, intimate moment. And while it had started as an embrace of comfort, she'd known, somehow, that his awareness had been as strong as her own.

Never in her former life had Lily believed she had a chance with Wyatt Blackstone. Never had she imagined him looking at her with dark blue eyes made darker with want. Yet in that one single moment, when she'd lifted her head and met his stare head-on, she'd seen that want. Maybe even had that chance.

It had scared the hell out of her. Though she didn't believe there was much that could surprise Wyatt Black-stone, she suspected it had even taken him off guard.

He wasn't supposed to lust after wounded, innocent little Lily. He'd been so careful around her since Friday afternoon. Watching her closely, yet not coming close. Offering his support, yet never touching her. Providing a comforting presence without really being wholly present, at least not mentally. Because his thoughts were guarded, somewhere far away, and he wouldn't reveal, by word or expression, what he was really thinking.

Part of her was glad he was holding back, acting as if it hadn't happened. Another part wanted to grab him and demand that he look at her like that at least one more time before he left.

"Maybe you'll get your shot," she whispered as she got out of the shower and dried off. Because, almost against her own better judgment, she had agreed to go out to dinner with him tonight. Not on any kind of a date, of course. He just wanted to drag her out into the world, away from the beach house for a little while, and knew shed be more likely to go sit down at a restaurant if a familiar face was across from her.

It was her first step into some semblance of a social life since before last January. The first meal she'd eat in a restaurant since she and Jackie had gone out to lunch a few days before the attack.

She was nervous. Her hand actually shook as she tried to apply a little of the makeup she'd picked up at the local general store but had never even opened. She'd bought it thinking she might try to disguise the scars around her ear. Not out of vanity, but to make herself less recognizable as someone who'd been shot in the head. Now that her hair had grown in, though, she didn't need to. Yet she still put a little foundation on her face to even out her tan lines and a swipe of mascara across her lashes to make them look a little prettier despite the drab brown contact lenses.

When she was finished, and looked in the mirror, she saw the woman the world would see. Relief flowed through her. Compact and slender, with her short, dark hair, dark eyes, and serious set to her mouth, she looked nothing like her old self. While it should have been a little disconcerting to see a stranger staring back at her, she liked the feeling.

Lily felt… anonymous. Free. Confident enough that no one would know her, she was almost looking forward to going out in the world for one evening to try to forget about everything else.

Maybe she'd be this way forever. Maybe she'd never go back to her old life. She could stay dark-haired and dark-eyed and tough. Could leave here and go prowl the world, seeing what it had to offer, no longer marked by the sadness or the violence of her past.

Then she thought of Wyatt and Brandon, and everything they'd done for her. She thought of Jackie, of Dean, Kyle, and Alec. They had been more than her coworkers; they had been her friends. They had mourned her. Grieved for her.

When she did decide to return to the real world, every one of them deserved the chance to tell her to go to hell for what she'd put them through.

She frowned at her reflection, then turned away. The guilt over keeping her survival hidden from people who cared about her was another heavy weight, one she knew she had to get off her back someday. After that, though, all bets were off Unless somebody gave her a better alternative, she would be free to go out and live whatever life she chose for herself. It was almost something to look forward to, though as recently as a few days ago, she hadn't been able to fathom it.

What, she wondered, had prompted it? Their breakthrough in the case, knowing they might soon find the man who'd taken her? Or Wyatt's presence? Maybe it had been the realization that whether he wanted to admit it or not, there was something between them, something far more than friendship or gratitude.

Heading downstairs promptly at six, as promised, she managed not to trip over her own feet on the bottom step as she saw Wyatt waiting for her. Damn, did the man really have to go and put on one of those perfectly tailored suits? In her long, flowing skirt, formfitting tank top, and cropped sweater, she was in no way a match for his elegance.

"Good," he said, nodding approvingly.

Not "You look good," she noted. He wasn't complimenting her looks. Just her disguise.

Typical man.

"Gee, thanks so much."

One of his brows quirked at her sarcastic tone. He didn't even realize what she might have wanted to hear from him. And she wasn't about to explain it.

"We really don't have to do this," she insisted as he retrieved her jacket and came over to help her put it on, the movement so graceful, so Wyatt, she wondered why more men didn't realize the appeal of such basic gentlemanly actions.

"Yes, we do," he murmured. "Don't tell me you're not exploding with frustration about this wait, because I know you are. And so am I. So let's just go out and try to be normal for the night. All the rest will still be here in the morning."

She nodded slowly, appreciating the thought, even if his words made it eminently clear this was in no way any kind of date.

You knew that already, dimwit. She just had to keep reminding herself of that fact. Wyatt wasn't ready to even consider letting their relationship turn into anything other than friendship.

Even if she knew, deep down, that a part of him wanted to.

It didn't prove an easy task. As she sat by his side in the car, breathing in the fragrance that was uniquely Wyatt, listening to the soft strains of jazz coming from the car speakers, it was hard to remember this was just a way to kill some time. Arriving at a small oceanfront restaurant a couple of towns away and being seated at an intimate corner table, with chairs placed side by side, rather than across from each other, made it even harder.

Obviously the seating was designed with the beach view in mind. And it was glorious, watching the purple shades and shadows of twilight begin to descend over the sand and the surf. Under other circumstances, she might be grateful for it. It was hard to be grateful, however, when with every move he made, his trousers brushed her bare calf, or his arm the tips of her fingers.

By the time their appetizer was delivered, she was actually shaking a little in her seat.

"What's wrong?" he asked, waiting until the flirty waitress, who'd been much more interested in taking Wyatt's order than hers, had moved out of earshot.

"Nothing. I'm just a little edgy. This isn't easy for me."

"You're going to have to get used to it sooner or later, aren't you?"

"To going out to dinner with you?" she asked, the words popping out of her mouth in old-Lily fashion before she could stop them.

He didn't acknowledge how that must have sounded-like a hint that she wanted this to be more than a simple dinner between friends. Thank God.

"I meant, you have to get used to being out in the world. Doing such normal things as going out to a restaurant."

Before, her words had been impulsive, nervous. Now I she put a little thought into them. And still she had to ask, "Going on dates, you mean?"

She wondered if he'd be able to maintain that cool, impassive front. She shouldn't have. As always, he kept his emotions, his reactions, entirely in check, as if he was so accustomed to guarding them, he couldn't be surprised by anything or anyone.

"Going anywhere," he told her. His faint smile emphasized the strong curve of his lips and the sparkle in his beautiful eyes. "Not that I think you ever lacked for dates."

"You might be surprised," she admitted wryly as she reached for a breadstick and snapped it in half. She twirled one half in her fingers, as if it were a big, fat cigarette, and suddenly realized she hadn't even had the urge to look for her lone pack since the night he had arrived.

"I know things had been pretty bad for a while. But before that, you must have had some sort of personal life. Friends, relationships. Something resembling normal."

"Do you have anything resembling normal?" she shot back, almost in challenge.

He hesitated: then the smile widened. "Touche."

"I don't think it's entirely possible in our line of work," she said, half-glad Wyatt had just admitted he didn't date and hadn't had any recent relationships. Half-sad for the very same reasons, because it confirmed what she'd known about him from the very start: that he was a loner, an enigma wrapped in secrets, surrounded by mystery, and almost untouchable by anyone he didn't invite to get close.

She had once wanted to get close. Very close. Emotionally, anyway.

Now she wanted to get even closer. Not emotionally- Lily wasn't about to get her feelings tangled up in anything anytime soon. But physically? Yes. She'd been thinking about it for months and Friday had confirmed it. She wanted Wyatt Blackstone. And if she thought he'd say yes, she'd ask him to take her back to the house right now and spend the rest of the weekend in her bed.

But he wouldn't say yes. Of that she had no doubt.

Despite the self-realization, for the next hour, she somehow managed to act normal. Nibble on the bread-stick, sip her glass of wine. Chat lightly, actually laughing a few times when he made one of his dry observations about the not exactly four-star food and service.

In fact, once she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth about what she wanted-even knowing she'd never get it-she actually managed to let her guard down and start to enjoy herself. Almost enough to imagine this was just a normal dinner date, and they were a normal man and woman.

"You can't tell me there was no one."

The sudden change in subject confused her. They'd just been talking about the way the chef must have stock in Old Bay seasoning, since he used it with all the subtlety and lightness of a road crew spreading salt after an ice storm. So at first she didn't follow. "Huh?"

"Before."

Before.

"You haven't been alone your entire life."

Oh, hell, they were back to personal talk about romance and relationships. Food, bad cooks, spices, and road salt she could deal with; they could cover those subjects all night long. Sex? No way, no how.

"You have been in love, haven't you? Isn't that something you want for yourself again? "

The quiet tone didn't disguise the piercing curiosity in his eyes. It was as if all this time, all this light conversation, had merely been the camouflage he'd used to creep in under her defenses, so they could get right back where they'd been an hour ago.

"You're good," she said, shaking her head ruefully.

"So they say." Wyatt was never cocky, only confident. So the words that could have sounded wrong coming from another type of man sounded sexy and absolutely right from him.

He lifted his drink, sipping the martini, watching her over the rim of the glass.

"I've been in love," she admitted with a shrug. "Or in very strong like."

"What happened?"

"He didn't appreciate being with a woman who carried a gun."

He laughed softly. "Terrified him, did you?"

It was rather funny. Before this year, she'd fired that weapon only during her bureau training and never removed it from its holster once in the line of duty. "I guess so. I'm terribly intimidating, you know." With an impish grin, she added, "Or so they say."

His amusement didn't quite reach his eyes. "Didn't he know you were an office nerd, and couldn't hurt a fly?"

"You wound me."

"Just stating the obvious."

"You think you know me so well?"

His voice intense, thick, he replied, "I hope I do."

Maybe he did. A year ago, she would have agreed with his assessment. Now, though? Well, she couldn't be entirely sure of who she was anymore. "I guess you never know what you're capable of until you're in the heat of the moment."

"Heat, yes." He leaned closer over the table. "In the white heat of danger or passion, I believe, anyone is capable of anything."

She swallowed hard, ignoring the word passion, focusing on the other. "Exactly. In danger, would I pull out that weapon and use it on someone?"

He waited for her to continue.

"You're damn right I would."

"And were you not in danger?"

She knew what he was asking, where he was going. Wyatt was still carefully dancing around the whole idea of vengeance. Her going after the man who'd attacked her and getting even in the most violent way possible.

Part of her wanted to lie, to be the kick-ass woman she'd told herself she'd become. But she couldn't. Not to him. Not convincingly, anyway. "No," she admitted. "I couldn't kill someone in cold blood."

"Even someone vile? Someone you hated?"

Like she hated Lovesprettyboys? "I wouldn't cry if someone else did it. But no. Not even then. Taking a life is something I simply couldn't do unless I were forced into it. Not even a villain's. Certainly not someone innocent."

"Taking a life is a very difficult, ugly thing to do. Even if it's your own," he murmured, so softly, so calmly, she at first thought she had misheard him.

Lily's heart splintered with the pain that suddenly stabbed into it. That was one hell of a low blow.

She drew in a deep, even breath, not trusting herself to reply. Which was good. Because she almost immediately thought about his words and realized why he'd said them.

Wyatt would never cause her pain intentionally-she knew that with every cell in her body. He wasn't throwing her sister's suicide in her face. He was simply forcing her to baldly acknowledge what she had only admitted in the utmost silence of the night, in her own head.

He knew. Somehow, he knew the secret feelings she'd tried so hard to repress. The bitterness. The anger. The fury.

"Suicide is a contemptible act," she finally replied.

"Yes, it is."

"Hateful and cruel. Almost unforgivable."

Not that she hadn't forgiven her sister. She had. That didn't mean she hadn't cursed her twin almost as much as she'd cried over her in those first few months, when she'd wondered why Laura had left her alone in this world. Entirely alone to grieve all of them.

"I know," he admitted, something in his voice clueing her in that he meant it. He knew.

As if he also knew they'd both gone far afield from their original conversation, he managed to move them back on the normal path with a noncommittal shrug and a sip of his drink. "Okay, tough girl. We have the gun-hating wimp. Who else?"

Though glad he'd changed the subject, she couldn't help frowning at the description. It was a little too accurate. "I didn't date only wimps."

"You don't seem like the football-jock type."

"Hardly," she said with a forced shudder.

No, she'd been the brainiac type. The kind who'd always had a thing for men who were smart enough to know they didn't need to rely on brawn.

Maybe that was why she'd always been a little infatuated by this one. The thought made her think twice before continuing. The conversation was a little too getting-to-know-each-other-on-a-first-date-ish for comfort.

"You know, if I'm going to answer these kinds of questions, you're going to have to as well."

"I'm not the one who's scared to return to her real life."

Her jaw dropped. "Scared? Excuse me?"

"Not that you don't have reason to be scared, obviously; you went through a lot and you could still be in danger." He shook his head slowly. "But it's more than that, isn't it? This whole situation, as ugly as it's been, has been a perfect excuse for you to hide away, protecting yourself physically, but also protecting your emotions." His voice almost hypnotic, he went on. "Safe from grief, from heartache. From risks and expectations."

She swallowed hard, responses spinning in her mind, so many she couldn't settle on just one. He was wrong. He was right. He was rude. He was sympathetic. He was intrusive. He was intuitive. He was keeping her off balance, unsure what he'd say next, what he'd ask next, relentlessly battering at her defenses to get her to admit everything he wanted her to acknowledge.

She should feel manipulated. She didn't. Instead, she could feel only a strange sense of relief at finally having someone to admit it to. The truth about how she felt.

He was that someone. He had been that someone for a very long time. "Yes."

"Yes to?"

"Yes to all of it." She thrust a hand into her hair, taken briefly by surprise, as always, that most of it was gone. "Trying to get back to any kind of normal life after what happened to my family hadn't been working out so well. I was floundering, even way back then, long before the attack on me, long before Friday, when I admitted it to you that I was treading water, staying alive, though not really living."

"And then you no longer had to even try to keep treading. You could just sink, hide away, stop trying to be part of the world that had moved past you."

"Exactly," she whispered.

Until he made her by doing things like staring at her with heat in his eyes from the doorway to her bedroom one hot summer night. Showing up and treating her like a woman rather than a fragile doll. Challenging her, arguing with her. Holding her in his arms and wanting her. Dragging her out here and forcing her to admit the truth.

Over the past few days, she'd begun to acknowledge the changes within herself. She actually thought about leaving here. Being free. Being alive again.

Because of him.

He was making her come to life whether she liked it or not. And now that it had started to happen, she sensed he was not going to give up until she became the woman he expected her to be.

Wyatt had taken Lily out to dinner specifically so she could escape her worries for a little while. So why he'd felt the need to segue into the role of amateur shrink and try to analyze her, he didn't know. Having started, though, he couldn't deny he wanted to know more. He wanted her to admit more. Perhaps exposing more of herself, letting the dark, unhappy thoughts out into the open, would keep her from dwelling on them so incessantly in her daytime hours and her nighttime ones.

But it wasn't to be. He had no sooner opened his mouth to ask her to continue talking about her feelings about her sister, her past, than a large man appeared by their table, and intruded in a loud voice. "Hey, you're him, right? You're the kid from that house up Dead Man's Beach? The murder house?"

Wyatt froze, his spine snapping hard against the back of his chair. Across from him, Lily's eyes had widened in shock, her mouth falling open on a tiny gasp.

Damn it. The span of years might have been long, but memories in small New England towns ran longer. He'd avoided going to Keating, driving out of the way to come up here to an even smaller town farther from the old beach house. Putting distance between himself and anyone who might recognize him had been an instinctive move.

He hadn't gone far enough.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he finally replied.

"I remember that story," the stranger said, as if Wyatt hadn't even spoken. "I was a teenager and read every one of the newspaper articles. Damn, you look just like your dad. That black hair and those blue eyes-you don't forget a combination like that. Good-looking fella, ayuh. And your mother, what a beauty."

Wyatt didn't even look up to acknowledge the man, whose slur outed him as drunk. The alcohol had obviously stripped the stranger of his inhibitions. Not to mention his common sense, considering he continued to shoot off his mouth, despite the deepening scowl Wyatt couldn't keep off his face.

"The whole town talked about nothing else that whole summer. Tragic."

"You're mistaken," he managed to say, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

"No, no, I remember like it was yesterday!"

Wyatt's entire body remained rigid, tense, and ready to spring into action, even though his mind cautioned against doing anything impulsive, anything he might regret. Laying out a stupid drunk who shot off his mouth regarding things he had no business asking about was definitely something he would regret.

"Let's go," he said to Lily, immediately rising, pushing his chair back hard against the wall. He tossed several bills on the table, then turned to fully face the stranger, a red-nosed guy with weathered, lobsterman's skin and milky eyes. "Excuse me, I think you've mistaken me for someone else. We were just leaving."

The stranger didn't budge. Still oblivious, blind to Wyatt's mood, he also missed the tension that had fallen over the entire restaurant. "Come on, at least admit it's you.

They found you in the lighthouse, right? Or was it in the house? Either way you were covered with blood. I mean, you are the kid who survived after that insane-"

Wyatt didn't think: he merely reacted, losing himself to some primal drive that his own intellect hadn't been able to completely subdue. He grabbed the man's beefy upper arm, clenched his fingers tightly around it, and spun him toward the wall, twisting the arm around until the shoulder had to be screaming. Leaning close, their backs to every other person in the place, who probably watched wide-eyed, he snarled, "Don't say another word. Not one word. Do you understand?''

The drunk grunted. Wyatt tugged farther.

"I repeat. Do you understand?"

With a wince, the man nodded quickly, at last recognizing the explosive situation he'd been about to kindle. "Sorry," he whispered. "Hey, I'm sorry. Obviously I mistook you for someone else."

As instantly as it had arisen, Wyatt's anger dissipated. His fingers jerked open and he let the man go, already regretting that lapse, that loss of control.

If Lily hadn't been here, an audience to the truth about the dark past Wyatt had tried so hard to put behind him, would he have been so quick to try to shut up a loud drunk? Maybe. But maybe not.

Of course, if Lily hadn't been here, nothing on heaven or earth would have induced him to come to within a hundred miles of this place. Ever.

"Wyatt?" she said, her voice subdued. She watched from a few feet away, no fear on her face, no flashback of a man's voice raised in anger, thank God. Just concern. "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded once. As the waitress hurried over, finally noticing the situation, he waved toward the cash on the table. "Thank you very much; we'll be leaving now," he said. "I trust that will take care of everything."

The young waitress stared goggle-eyed at the pile of bills. "Sure. You bet. Come back any old time."

Not very likely. Especially not now, when he knew that within hours, all the tiny towns up and down a sixty-mile stretch of coast would be whispering about his presence. The return of the boy who'd survived such an infamous crime.

Not glancing left or right, he put his fingers on the small of Lily's back and led her to the exit, impervious to the stares, almost hearing the whispers.

Was it really him? How old was he, five or six? Did they ever find out how much he saw? Whether he went to the lighthouse on his own, or was brought there? All that blood! I remember the pictures in the paper-they looked like such a nice couple.

It was almost as if he had a sixth sense and could hear the buzz of conversation, the words swirling around and around in his mind, present and past mixing up. The questions were all the same now as they had been then, exploding in the silence, crowding out the quiet hum of the engine and the deep, even sound of Lily's breaths in the seat beside him.

Tension filled the car throughout the drive back to the house. Whatever conversation he and Lily might have had before, now they shared only the uncomfortable memory of Wyatt losing his famed cool.

She asked no questions. Didn't pry, didn't try to tease him out of his dark mood or tell him that fair was fair- she'd done some talking, and now he should.

For all of that, he was most grateful.

But that still didn't stop him from dropping her off, escorting her to the door, then turning around, getting back in his car, and driving all the way back to Washington that very night

The murder house. Wyatt's handsome father and beautiful mother. The boy who'd survived.

Had his family really been killed in this house? God, had he really witnessed the murders of his own parents when he was just a small child?

Lily couldn't get those thoughts out of her head during the ride back to the house or in the moments after Wyatt had unceremoniously dropped her off and left. Her mind had, of course, filled in the gaping blanks left by the drunk man's story. She suspected finally filling in those blanks would provide a complete explanation for the varying facets of the supervisory special agent's life: his brilliance, his secretiveness, his intensity, his solitary lifestyle. His enigmatic personality.

All those answers, just waiting to be discovered.

The information was out there. She knew it. A trip to the local newspaper office or the library would provide archives. That failing, a talkative resident familiar with the history of this town would almost certainly answer any questions she cared to ask about this house.

"So many questions," she whispered, looking out her bedroom window, as she had been for several minutes, since his taillights had disappeared down the steep driveway and up the lonely beach road.

Lily didn't know that she could do it, or even that she needed to. She already knew the basics. Something awful had happened here. Something that had scarred

Wyatt for life, making him the man he was today. It had shaped him the way a piece of raw metal was hammered and formed in the punishing fires of the furnace.

"But could I do that? Intrude on his past like that, ask those intimate questions?" she added, her own breaths making misty circles against the glass, proof that autumn was indeed coming fast in this part of the world. She turned to the other window, on the eastern wall, which overlooked the ocean. Staring down at the shore, at the blackness of the water, the faint outline of the faded lighthouse up the beach-the place he seemed to hate even more than this house-she knew she could not.

No research, no digging, no questions. She couldn't do that to him. It was Wyatt's story. His secret. His history. When he wanted her to know about it, he would tell her. Until then, she could only treat him with the same kindness and respect he'd always shown her and mind her own goddamn business. That was the very least she could do, given all she owed him.

She wandered back to the bed, eyeing the room, studying the curve of the antique four-poster, the soft, honeyed oak of the dresser, and the gently billowing sheers on the window.

The murder house.

Strange that it still felt so safe to her. So comforting, even if it had a horrible history she might someday learn about.

Stranger that he'd brought her here. She'd nearly been killed and her savior had brought her to the site of his darkest, most vicious nightmares to hide her from the world. He'd set aside the seething emotions he must have for the place and installed Lily within it, coming back here, month after month, despite the memories that had to ooze from every wall, seep from each crevice in the floor.

The sacrifice was staggering.

So at the very least, to repay the man, she could be patient and wait for him to tell her the truth. Even though she knew full well that day might never come.