Page 22 of Love What's Left
“Gabriel—”
“She started eating again this morning,” I say, all about the cheerful optimism. So what if this mask is a thin veneer with a hundred cracks in it? From a distance, he’ll never notice. No one but Sydney ever has.
My brother’s breath of relief whooshes through the speaker. Henry shifts Ian into a vertical position against his chest. “And you’re at your desk. This is good news.”
His tone often has a slightly flat affect, but I know him well enough to recognize that he’s sincere.
I shift in my chair. “She wanted some space.”
“You both probably need some,” he says.
I shrug noncommittally.
“Has she remembered anything useful yet?”
He’s always blunt, but his question takes a wrecking ball to my carefully constructed facade. “She doesn’t remember my name, Henry. No matter how many times I tell it to her. Swallowing down some calories is asusefulas I need her to be.”
Henry watches me with concern written in his eyes. He probably didn’t intend to sound callous, but it took him years to accept Sydney wasn’t a threat. I’d told her too many of our secrets, and she’d needed money. In his mind, she was a storm gathering on the horizon. The blackmail—excuse me—bribe, didn’t help.
Henry clears his throat. “It would make things easier if—”
“You heard what Dr. Granthy said. Anything that happened while she was drugged isn’t coming back,” I remind him.
“I’m aware, but I doubt Markov kept her dosed the entire time. There’s a chance he allowed it to wear off, if only because it would have been inconvenient, if not impossible, to never leave her for more than eight hours at a time. He had a job and a life he had to maintain. If you bring her back to New York, we could use her to piece together what happened at the lab. Her presence could draw out whoever Markov had on the inside that allowed him to penetrate Sydney’s security.”
“No one isusingmy wife for anything, let alone bait. There are ways to figure out how someone managed to get to her that don’t involve putting her back in the line of fire,” I say coldly.
Henry lifts his glasses with one hand and rubs the bridge of his freckled nose, then adjusts them back into place. “Of course, you’re right. It’s unfortunate you had to kill Markov before we had the opportunity to interrogate him. We know why he took her. We don’t know how or why he kept her alive for so long. I don’t like those kinds of loose ends.”
Ian snuffles adorably into his father’s shoulder.
“At what age will you decide it’s no longer appropriate to discuss murder and torture in front of your kid?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Since my son is currently asleep and gives no indication of having learned the English language, the answer isnot eight weeks.”
I squeeze the tight muscles in the back of my neck. “But, you’ll stop soon, right? You’ll protect Ian from growing up with all this shit living in his head.”
Henry stiffens. He’s always had an overdeveloped need for justice. He got that drive from Dad who is even more fanatical about it than he is.
“It was our training that kept us alive that night when we were kids,” Henry says.
I can’t argue with the truth, but Bronwyn is doing it right with their kids. “It’s our job to protect the children, even from their fears. It’s not their job to protect themselves. No kid should grow up carrying that weight. Safety measures, yes. Training, but not . . .” I shake my head.
“Not that,” he murmurs in agreement. “I suppose if Ian inherited his mother’s talent for languages, there’s no telling when he’ll figure out what we’re saying. It would be best to begin now.”
I nod.
He pauses. “You look rough, Gabriel. You have to take care of yourself. What do you need to get through this?”
My hand moves back to my chest before I catch myself and drop it. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”
“You didn’t even make a masturbation joke when I said ‘take care of yourself.’ You’re clearly not functioning at optimal levels,” Henry says dryly.
I scrub my palm over my eye. “Only you would refer to my physical and mental health as ‘optimal levels.’ I’m thirty-three, not thirteen.”
“As if your age ever stopped you from making crass jokes that no one but you finds funny.”
“My wife thinks I’m hilarious.”Did.Shedidthink that. No longer. “Just tell me what’s happening before I reach through this phone and throttle you,” I say tiredly.
