“His sister,” Preston says, splitting the last of the wine between our glasses.
“Don’t you think part of it is because your family kidnapped him?” I ask, watching him for a reaction. Preston doesn’t scare me, but he’s a slippery snake, deceptive when it suits him.
“We didn’t kidnap him,” he says. “He and his family tried to set us up to look that way.”
“So it’s his fault you assaulted him?”
“I didn’t do shit to him,” Preston says. “They left him tied up in my grandfather’s house. What did they fucking expect to happen? I wouldn’t leave my own sister alone in a room with that man.”
“Still sounds like you’re blaming Royal for what happened to him.”
“He helped set it up,” Preston says. “I don’t blame him, though. He was a kid. He probably didn’t know shit about it. But his father should have known. And now… It’s hard to feel bad when something bad happens to someone like that. It’s like feeling bad when you find out a serial killer was abused as a child.”
“What happened to him then doesn’t excuse what he’s doing now,” I say, mostly to myself. I said something similar when Royal told me what happened when he was kidnapped.
Preston finishes his wine and begins to wrap his glass back up, so it won’t break in his bag.
“Do you know what happened to him when your grandfather found him?” I ask Preston. “When he took him to the Swans’ lair?”
Preston hands falter, and then he carefully starts picking up the crackers. “Do you know?” he asks, his words measured.
“Yes.”
He tucks the crackers back into his bag. “I’m surprised he’d tell you that.”
“So, you do know,” I say, my heart hammering. I wanted him to say it wasn’t true, to tell me Royal was wrong, and he didn’t know anything about it. He told me Preston knew what happened to him the same way the twins knew what happened to me when I was tied to this tree. Because they did it.
“Yeah,” Preston says quietly. “I know.”
Suddenly, it gives me a jumpy feeling to know this is where I was attacked, where I almost died. I shrink away from the tree, hugging my knees.
“Did you do it?” I ask, because I’ve never been one to leave a question unasked, to shy away from hearing the truth, even when it hurts the most. Preston is my friend. I love him. But I know he’s not above using someone who’s not in a state to protest.
“What the fuck, Harper,” he says, turning toward me. “How can you ask me that?”
“Because Royal said you did.”
“And you got him to sit in my truck and not murder me?” he asks. “Damn, Miss A. I’m impressed.”
“Did you?” I press. “I need an actual answer.”
I made way too many stupid mistakes over the past year by assuming things based on people’s words or reactions. Apparently, I’m not so good at reading people, even if I like watching them. Between him and Mr. D, I don’t trust anyone who won’t just say what they mean.
Preston pulls his mask off and rakes his hand through his hair. His fingers tangle in his headlamp strap, and he pulls it off, shaking his head. “No,” he says. “I wasn’t there. I found out later.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, touching his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“You didn’t mean to offend me,” he says flatly. “By asking if I raped your boyfriend.”
“Look, I know you’d never hurt me because you have some weird, transference thing going on with your guilt about their sister, but you’ve told me yourself that you have things to atone for,” I point out. “Including some pretty blurred lines when it comes to consent.”
“Because I care about you.”
“What?”
“I’d never hurt you because I care about you,” he says, turning toward me. “It has nothing to do with her. Maybe at first, yeah. But I barely knew her. I know you, Harper Apple.” He leans in, pressing his shoulder to mine, his eyes hooded as his gaze dips to my lips.
For a second, I don’t move. I wait for his mouth to find mine, for him to take what he wants like he always does. My heart is beating double-time, and I’m not sure if I’m scared or excited that he’ll kiss me.