“It would be easier if you were at the clubhouse,” I say instead.
She looks away, as if the thought of going back there, spending time in my room, makes her stomach turn as much as the thought of Will Varon does.
“You will have to stay there if we get called out for work.”
Instead of arguing, she gets that faraway look in her eyes once again, as if she’s seeing and not seeing at the same time. It’s similar to the near catatonic way she looked last night as I helped her into her house.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, looking for a little insight into where she’s at emotionally.
She scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it. It’s as if she can’t manage being irritated, and I know from being on the receiving end of her attitude so many times that this is out of character for her.
“You don’t seem like the type to worry about what’s going on in a woman’s head. Am I confusing you because I have clothes on?”
There’s a small hint of the agitation so familiar with her. I want to smile at the display, but I know it won’t go over well. I also know that mentioning how sexy she looks in that fucking muumuu wouldn’t land the way I want it to.
“Not normally,” I tell her. “But I can tell you’re distressed.”
She shakes her head, but it doesn’t feel like she’s denying my words.
“I should’ve listened to you,” she mutters, another round of tears forming on her lower lashes.
I pick up my own cup of coffee rather than reaching for her. Negating her feelings or trying to explain them away probably won’t help. It certainly won’t help her work through them any faster. She isn’t the type of person to cling to excuses or point the blame anywhere else.
“The outcome would’ve been the same,” I say, feeling it as truth. “You may not have witnessed that little girl there, but he was always going to hurt her to the point of needing to go to the hospital. Greta was always going to build up the courage to help her, even knowing it meant her own demise. Us being in Telluride may have been a catalyst to Varon’s actions—specifically my Cerberus cut—but things were always going to turn out this way. One way you may want to look at it is that whatever hell that little girl was going through ended faster. Maybe she suffered less because Varon felt like we were on to him.”
“How is she doing? The little girl, I mean.”
“Dr. Camryn Davison is looking after her.”
“In the hospital?”
“No. Legend texted this morning and said that she freaked out when they tried to take her into the hospital. Camryn is looking after her at her and Samson’s home. She’s bruised and battered but doesn’t have any serious injuries to her person. Hospitalization isn’t required. Max was able to access her medical records from the hospital Angel pulled her from, and if they were able to identify her, she would’ve been discharged.”
“She’s never going to be the same,” she whispers as she walks her cup to the sink.
“No, Sylvie. She won’t.”
She nods in understanding, and I’m grateful she doesn’t ask about the extent of the child’s injuries. She was bruised in many places, but her medical records also indicate sexual assault and signs of torture. She has more scars on her back, legs, and arms than some men and women coming back from war have. It isn’t uncommon in trafficked victims, but it’s always harder to understand when it’s a child.
“That Angel guy, is he Cerberus?”
A growl of denial bubbles out of my throat before I can stop it. “No. He isn’t Cerberus.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t ask any more questions about Angel or the little girl or Varon.
I don’t want to have to explain that Angel is a mercenary and his actions are about money rather than moral obligation. The man is willing to hurt others so long as it gets him closer to a payday. I want to keep her from knowing that the chances of us finding Varon are slim because he’s been in this business since birth and knows all the ways not to get caught. I also don’t think that she’d take it very well to know that many bodies were found buried on his property. Knowing what I know about her, she’d find some way to blame herself for seeing the extensive gardens out back and not knowing it was his father and many other unidentified persons’ burial places.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask as she dries her hands on a dish towel.
Her eyes search mine, as if she believes she’s going to find answers there, but it doesn’t take her long to realize I’m not able to answer those questions bouncing around in her head. Not because I don’t want to but because I have many of the same in my own.
“I’m going back to bed,” she says before walking out of the room.
She doesn’t ask me to join her, and I don’t follow.
Chapter 27
Sylvie