“I’m not leaving,” Lindsay says defiantly, giving Silas the same lip she gives Drew. “Jane and I just got here. And I’ve been introduced to Lily, who is fascinating.”

“Drew’s orders, Lindsay,” Silas says with a sigh, like they’ve been around and around on this issue before. He smells like soap and limes, wearing a polo shirt and dress pants, a light jacket obscuring his gun belt. Tight anger and professional alertness shape his features, jaw hard, the skin under his eyes pulled up tight, face carefully neutral. The epitome of the stereotypical Hollywood bodyguard, he plays the role well.

Except this is life or death. And very, very real.

“Why?”

“My job isn’t to ask why,” he replies.

Lindsay pointedly looks at the wall of magazines. “What, exactly, is your job, Silas?”

I want to fall into a hole in the ground and be smothered by raw sewage.

“It’s to do what I’m told.”

She gestures at a magazine with a picture of us kissing. “You were told to do that?”

“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you, Lindsay.”

“Oh, we’re definitely talking about how you and Drew are too stupid to see you’re being played.”

Blazing eyes, so blue, they’re almost clear, meet mine. “Trust me. I know I’m being played.”

“Not by me,” I snap. “By whoever’s behind this.” I force myself to look at the magazines. “The same person who gave the gunman Harry’s private code is probably the one who got those pictures taken.”

“That’s not part of my job right now,” he says coldly.

“We’re back to this, are we, Silas?” I hiss the end of his name. “You believe the lies about me and I get treated like–like you swore you never would treat me, ever again.”

“That was before new information came to light.”

“You lied.”

“I told a truth based on your lies, Jane. You don’t get to turn me into the bad guy.”

This is killing me. I can feel parts of my body dying swift, painful deaths, yet still wanting to touch him, to be close, to go back to what we had just a few days ago. It feels like decades have passed, attitudes ossified, the hope and eagerness of just a few days ago some kind of quaint naïveté.

I was naïve, all right. Naïve to ever think he would truly love me.

Duff hands Lindsay a phone. I can hear Drew’s voice. Lindsay starts to argue, then stops abruptly, her mouth an O of shock.

“Okay,” she says in a meek, stunned voice. “I will.” A shaky look comes my way. “I have to go, Jane. Can I take a raincheck on hanging out?”

“Of course.” I walk to give her a hug, her body tense. Whatever Drew said to her must be bad. “Everything okay?” I whisper.

“No. Be careful. Please,” she says as she squeezes me extra hard. “We can use the book reviews to talk more.”

“Why? We can’t just text? ”

“Shh.” She lets go and turns away, Duff walking her to yet another unmarked black SUV.

“I’ll take you home,” Silas says in a hostile voice.

“I’ll walk.”

“Like hell you will.”

“That’s awfully unprofessional of you.”

“Drawing clear boundaries.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Your lines are painted with a steamroller, Silas.” I go to leave. He blocks me with his body.

“I mean it, Jane. You need to ride, not walk.”

“What I need isn’t your problem anymore, Silas. I already had you removed from my case. Romeo can take me home. ”

“Romeo’s gone.” He opens the door and holds it with a taut, furious gesture, expecting me to comply.

“I’m not finished here. You’re off my case. Go away.”

“Um, Jane? Do you need me to call the police? Is he harassing you?” Lily asks, voice rising in anger on my behalf.

The first flicker of real emotion aside from anger makes its appearance in Silas. “No need for police.”

“I will wait until Jane answers. You’re acting like a controlling asshole who might hurt her if I let her leave with you,” Lily informs him. In one hand she has a smartphone, 9-1-1 already queued up, ready for her to press Send.

“He–he won’t hurt me,” I tell her.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” Silas looks wounded. Disturbed. As if it’s sinking in how far this has gone.

“You sure don’t look like a guy who wouldn’t,” Lily says under her breath, putting herself between me and Silas, her eyes searching my face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Exhaustion seeps into me. “I–I’ll come by tomorrow.”

She hugs me. Second hug in a row where I’m saying goodbye to someone I wish I could hang out with. “If you need me, you know my number, right?”

“I do.”

Glaring at Silas, she makes it clear she’s not sure this is a good idea, but I leave with him anyway. Walking as fast as I can, I turn the corner away from the SUV.

I’m yanked back, crying out as my arm wrenches.

“Way to prove her right, Silas.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuine. “I didn’t think you’d keep walking.”

“You could have said something.”

“Words don’t seem to work on you.”

“But violence does?” I start to run away from him, the pain in my shoulder throbbing. It’s useless. He catches up within seconds, but I keep running anyhow. If he touches me again, I really will scream.

Sometimes, moving the body beyond its limits is the only way to escape.

“I’m sorry,” he pants as I run and he jogs like my sprint pace is nothing. “Truly.”

You can’t exist, I say to myself in an endless loop, the words taking on a beat. If Silas exists, then I have to acknowledge my heartbreak. If Silas exists, I have to look at him and remember how it felt to have his skin against mine, warm and loving, exotic and heated. If Silas exists, I am forced to remember the pleasure he gave me, the ecstasy of being with him, the rush of abandon that came as he made me feel more vibrant and sensual than I’ve ever felt in my life.

If Silas exists, then there is a separation. A schism. He will never touch me again in bed. He will never use his body and heart to comfort me.

If Silas exists and we’re not together, then I’m really broken.

At the building, I go for the stairs, glutes screaming. The more my body suffers, the less I feel the pain in my heart, my mind, on my tongue. Pain crouches like a predator, waiting to strike. If I keep moving, it can’t target me so easily. I would rather generate my own pain than be victim to someone else’s. Torture is so much more endurable when self-administered.

On the second floor staircase, he says simply, “Jane. Please.”

I’m cradling my hurt arm. I pause. I don’t turn around.

“Let me help with your arm.”

“No.” My refusal echoes up the staircase, as if trying to break through the ceiling.

I push the hallway door hard with my good arm, storming onto our floor, marching straight for my apartment. I have to find my keys in the pocket on the side of my body with the hurt arm. Delayed by the injury, I lose precious seconds.

I feel Silas before he speaks.

“Leave me alone,” I say, before he can try to tell me more words that do not matter. All the apologies in the world for grabbing my arm won’t make up for what he’s done to me in so many other ways.

The elevator dings. Footsteps.

And then the last sound I expected to hear.

“JAAAAAAAAANNNNNEEE!” squeals little Kelly, tackling my legs with a giant hug. She uses her whole body and full heart the way only a little kid can.

Silas steps in front of me and opens my door with his keys. His keys to my apartment.

That’s it.

The tears start.

“Jane! Are you here to play Candyland with me again? Grandma says we are going to stay at her house for a while. We leave in a few days. Uncle Silas said Grandma’s here until some man in a bathrobe decides we can go.”

“Bathrobe?” I don’t want to wipe my eyes and make it obvious I’m crying. Silas looks at me and sees it, though.

“Robe. A judge’s robe,” he clarifies.

“Ah.” Behind the scenes, custody issues must be resolving. I wouldn’t know, because I’m not part of Silas’s inner world anymore.

Damn the tears.

My phone buzzes. I can’t reach it without feeling the pain of something caught in my shoulder. Kelly touches the outside of my front pocket, frowning.

“Someone is texting you,” she says. “A friend?”

“Maybe,” I tell her, my panic rising as I see her grandmother come into view, her eyes lighting up as she sees me.

Ah. Silas hasn’t shared his stupid belief that I had something to do with his sister’s death. Hope rises again, its heartbeat in rhythm with the throbbing in my shoulder.

“Jane!” she says, giving Silas a funny look. He’s standing back now, propping my front door open for me, stretched in a way that gives me the most space between us.

“Grandma, can Jane come over for Candyland?” Kelly begs.

“No,” Silas says, just as Linda says, “Sure!”

Like every typical five-year-old, Kelly only hears the yes. “YAY! Jane’s coming over!”

“Just for a short visit,” Silas says gently. “So I can make sure her arm is okay.”

“What happened to your arm?” Linda asks, immediately concerned.

“Someone grabbed it accidentally while I was walking. Some jerk who can’t bother to see the world in front of him,” I add in an acid tone. “You know the type.”

“Oh, yes. The ones who think the world revolves around their perspective and no one else’s?” she asks, matching my tone.

“Exactly,” I say, the edge all too clear to Silas, who is seriously angry with me.

Good.

“Karma will get him,” she assures me.

“Oh, it will,” I agree.

“Come over when you’ve freshened up,” Linda says. “We’re only here for a short time.” She lowers her voice. “Kelly’s about to have a meeting with a social worker. We’re a few steps away from being safe with custody, and then we can move her to Minnesota.”

“Oh, wow. So soon?”

“I can’t take much more time from work. And the legal bills...”

“Mom,” Silas says sharply, ending conversation. Linda looks chastened, but recovers fast.

“Sorry. Given what Silas does for a living, I never know what I’m allowed to talk about,” she says in a conspirator’s voice.

I smile. It’s the polite, expected response.

And then I go into my apartment, shut the door, and stand there, crying silently until my belly turns into a tight ball of pain my muscles reject.

It’s worse right under my heart, as if the pain were clinging to each rib, being held back by some unseen force from storming the gates.

Silas was a Trojan horse. I thought he was one thing.

He turned out to be quite another.

Little Kelly leaves soon, so this is my only chance to see her once more.

I think through the moment in the flower shop as I walked away. Silas consciously reached for me, pulling me back into his world. The one where he makes all the decisions. The one where he tells me what to do. The one where he protects me.

The one where he hates me for committing crimes I didn’t commit.

It’s so easy to make someone believe a lie.

And so hard to convince them of the truth.

Backwards. It’s all backwards. I feel like the kids in that series on Netflix.

Everything in my world is upside down.

And there’s a monster out there no one else sees, coming for me.

I set my purse down and grab a tissue, wiping my face, blowing my nose, trying to find homeostasis. What now?

I check my phone. Hedding Stuva, texting me.

Tap tap tap.

I whirl around in surprise and open my door. No one’s there.

“Hey!” I look down. Kelly.

With Linda and Silas right behind her.

“Sorry,” Linda says apologetically. “The social worker moved the appointment up. We’re leaving now, and Kelly insisted–”

“I wanna say hi. And I want you to have this,” she says shyly, handing me a crayon-covered drawing.

I hold it up with my good arm as I crouch to her level. Silas notices, frowning.

“It’s beautiful! I can see the princess in there. And are those candy canes?”

Kelly beams, hurling her little arms around my neck. “Yes! Someday I wanna go to Disneyworld with you, Jane! Can we go and be princesses there?”

The lump in my throat threatens to crawl out and go hide under the covers of my blow-up bed, never to emerge. “Um,” I say, stalling. I can’t lie to her.

Silas rescues me. “Mom, why don’t you take Kelly to the car. I’ll be there shortly.”

Linda nods, then pulls me in for a hug. “Take care of yourself, Jane. Hopefully we’ll see you before we go back to Minnesota.”

“Mmm hmm,” is all I can manage, smiling at her and Kelly as they go back to the elevator, Kelly pushing the button eagerly.

“You didn’t tell your mom. You didn’t tell her what Drew suspects about me,” I say to him. It comes out like an accusation. I don’t mean it that way.

“It’s not just Drew who suspects,” he says with a glower. “But no. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to add to her distress.”

“You don’t really believe that I had anything to do with your sister’s death, do you?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Trust me, Jane, that’s a position I’m not used to. I don’t like ambiguity. Not in combat, not in protecting clients, and certainly not when it comes to emotions.”

“Life is filled with ambiguity. We have to learn to navigate it. It’s what makes us human.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t handle ambiguity. I said I don’t like it.”

We’re at a standoff.

And when you’re at a standoff, you’re basically playing a game of chicken.

I fold first, making my body turn away from him, consciously choosing to be the first to flinch. Without a word, I leave him hanging, walking away. There is no response good enough to meet whatever criteria he has in mind.

Because he might not like ambiguity, but right now, ambiguity makes me feel safer than the truth.

Whatever that is.