The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(21)

“It’ll make me partner, which is better than being happy.” I phrase it like a joke, but the truth is, if I were offered a choice between happiness and making partner…I’d probably choose the latter. “And I’m not sure happiness is really in my makeup.”

“Of course, it is. You’ve forgotten the little girl who used to spin in the yard for the fun of it and jump in every puddle, but I haven’t,” she says.

I quietly crumple a Post-it note in my hand and leave it clenched in my fist. I haven’t forgotten the kid she described either, but I think I may be too broken to get any of it back.

When the call ends, I rise and head to the break room. It’s late, and I should probably go home and eat a real meal, but I suspect the emptiness of my apartment would get to me tonight.

I take two steps inside and come to a sudden, graceless halt. Ben is there, reading on his phone while he waits for coffee to brew.

The coward in me would probably turn and walk out except I’ve already been seen. His gaze—startled, then predatory—starts at my face and finishes at my shoes, where it remains for a long, long moment.

I continue forward, doing my best to act like he’s not here. If it weren’t for ten straight years of dance training, I’d definitely be stumbling right now, however.

“I heard an interesting rumor about you, so I investigated,” he says.

My stomach drops.

“Your mom’s Etsy shop is endlessly fascinating.”

It’s not what I thought he was going to say, but it’s a bad night to have anything involving my mother thrown in my face.

I give him my best dead-eyed look. The one that says If you continue discussing this, I’ll make sure they never find your body. “Maybe you should be doing a little work on the Lawson case instead of online shopping.”

He gives a genial shrug and opens up his phone. “We’ve got a few spare moments. Outfits for cats, right? I might need to contact her.”

“Looking for a special bondage outfit for yours?” I ask, jerking a drawer open more roughly than is necessary. “My mom won’t support your weird habits if that’s what you’re hoping.”

He grins. “Wow, such interesting pictures.” He holds up his phone.

Sadly, my mother still hasn’t mastered her in-home photography skills. She’s showing the cats curled up on the linoleum kitchen floor when I’ve told her a thousand times that she should at least use a white sheet.

“I love the way that shelf is hanging haphazardly off the wall,” he continues. “It’s kind of dark, like she wants you to fear for the cats’ lives while admiring their outfits at the same time.”

I feel a hard pinch, right in the center of my chest. I wonder if my father is laughing right now—just like Ben—while showing my mother’s poor attempt at independence to his country club friends, his new wife giggling as she says, “Oh, Adam, stop”—as if she isn’t enjoying it the most of them all.

“Don’t make fun of my mother,” I snap, but there’s a lump in my throat that warns me I’m not going to be able to hold it together, whether he stops or not. I hate that he’s won this round. I hate that he found this out, and I hate that there are things in my past I’m even more scared he’ll discover. I turn on my heel, stiff as I walk from the room.

“Gemma?” he asks, but I just keep going, because if I try to utter a single word in response, I will absolutely lose it. My lungs feel like they’re lined with shattered glass, so jagged I’m scared to take a full breath.

I go to my office and shut the door, hating that I’m falling apart here and now and with him of all people. I grab my bag and shove my laptop inside.

He knocks, tries the handle, and finds it locked. “Gemma, I—”

“We really don’t need to discuss it,” I announce, making my voice as sharp as possible. “It’s fine.”

I want him to just walk away, but he doesn’t.

“I don’t understand why it upset you so much,” he says. “I was just kidding. You’ve said far worse to me.”

Rage cures my sadness faster than time ever could. I jerk the door open, swinging the bag over my shoulder. “I make fun of the women you date, you make fun of me for not dating at all. That’s fair. Making fun of someone’s mother for being poor while you sit there with your fancy car and big house is not.”

He blinks in surprise, and I see something an awful lot like shame pass over his face. “Gemma,” he says, “I’m sorry. I honestly had no idea. None. You have that whole posh, East Coast, private-school vibe. I assumed you had wildly wealthy parents.”

I did, and now I don’t. Now I’ve got a mother who has to do everything for herself and won’t let me help. That shelf in her kitchen will probably fall eventually. And her car will break down, or she’ll slip on the ice outside her apartment again and I will be here, unable to make it stop.

“You can say what you want about me, but leave my mother out of it.” My voice cracks at the end and I turn away from him, staring into my purse, as if searching for my keys when all I’m really trying to do is hold it together.

“You’re right,” he says, turning me toward him. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

I want to continue lashing out, but there’s something so gentle and genuine in his gaze that I can’t do it. His hand is on my hip. We are standing close enough for me to smell his soap, to make out the glints of gold in his eyes, to see up close just how much he needs to shave. I picture how that scruff would feel beneath my lips.