Page 89 of What We Become

I slide into the chair beside him, and because he just popped his own chest open and showed me the wiring, I owe him something equal.

“Since we’re doing honesty,” I say, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Holden’s attention sharpens. Waits. Cop’s patience, the professional bastard.

“You remember when you told me to try the quiet?” I ask.

His expression changes slightly. “Yes.”

“Turns out it wasn’t empty.”

He waits for me to fill in the space.

“Sometimes my brain erases things for me,” I say. “Not properly. The files are still there, but it revokes my access. Puts them somewhere I can’t reach so I can keep functioning without knowing what’s inside.”

“Okay . . .” He draws the word out. Kind of like a question.

“Every now and then the permissions reset.” I lean back and fold my arms across my middle. “Then everything comes back online at once.”

“The warehouse did that?”

“Yeah.”

His attention sharpens. “What came back?”

“My father,” I say.

“We don’t talk about your father,” Holden says, the words I’ve always said by rote echoing back to me.

“Yeah.” I take a slow breath. “Well, I remembered why . . .”

Holden doesn’t move.

“I killed him.”

TWENTY

HOLDEN

Ihad a hunch when we first met Gloria that Milo had something to do with his father’s death. He was too wooden, too closed off at the mention of the lavender bed. It was like a steel door slamming shut on the topic, the words “We don’t talk about my father” forced through clenched teeth like a protective chant.

Years of interrogation rooms taught me that the worst thing you can do with a confession is react to it. Milo’s hand is still on mine, his pulse going hard enough against my fingers that I could take his heart rate without a watch.

“Is that what happened when you were sixteen?”

Milo flinches like the question has teeth. His hand jerks in mine, an aborted pull, and I close my fingers before he can take it back. Interrogation rule one: don’t let them leave the table.

“Hey.” I keep my voice level. Low. “Look at me.”

He does, and it’s like he’s watching me from the far end of a hallway.

“Your mother told us that night,” I say. “She said you’ve been having episodes since you were sixteen.”

The last of the color leaves his face. Somewhere behind me, Frank’s filter hums. The security monitor on the table cycles through empty cameras, one gray frame at a time.

“So, she just—handed you the warranty information. Here you go, Detective, my son’s been defective since puberty, here’s the receipt⁠—”

“Milo.”