The Winter Sister(65)

He was still grinning, and as Ben came out onto the steps and grabbed the knob to close the door behind us, Tommy moved to keep us in his view, craning his neck until the door was fully shut.

I marched down the steps, gripping the box to my chest, and Ben followed, the two of us stopping on the stretch of curb in front of the BMW—which, I realized now, belonged to him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him again.

He crossed his arms over his sweater—his coat must have been inside; he must have made himself right at home in Tommy’s trailer—and his breath resembled smoke as it slipped through his lips.

“What are you doing here?” he fired back. “You said you didn’t want to go anywhere near him.”

“I don’t,” I said. “But I realized that I have to, okay? I need some answers.”

“Well so do I,” he replied. “But if you changed your mind, then why didn’t you call me?”

“Because we’re not a team, Ben.”

He shook his head, then glanced at my car, tucked into the space behind his. “I can’t believe you came here alone. That’s so dangerous.”

“You came alone.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what?” I pressed. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“That’s not the point,” he said. “We have no idea what this guy is capable of. And you—you’re Persephone’s sister. Who knows what that might trigger in him. You could’ve gone in there and . . . and he might have . . .”

“He might have what?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I just . . . I want you to be careful.”

He let out his breath in a rush, as if it had been spooled up tight inside him. As the muscles in his face relaxed, the expression he’d had drained away. His eyes became softer around the edges, and I wondered, for only a moment, if his frustration just now had been out of a feeling of protectiveness for me, the little sister of the girl he claimed to love.

His brows knitted together. “What?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Huh?” I blinked and glanced over his shoulder at Tommy’s door. It was still shut, but I could imagine Tommy with his ear pressed against it on the other side. “Nothing. I’m not—looking at you like anything. How long have you been here anyway?”

He shook his head. “Not long. You showed up maybe ten minutes after I did.”

“Oh.” I shifted my weight, repositioned my hands under the box. “Well, what have you guys talked about so far?”

Ben looked at his shoe while he flattened a clump of snow. “A whole lot of nothing. He’s very amused by it all. My questions. My showing up in the first place. It’s one big joke to him.” His foot shot out and kicked at the hardened snow along the curb. Then he looked at what I was carrying. “What is that? You brought him something?”

I glanced at the box. “No,” I said. “Well—kind of. It’s leverage.”

He nodded, as if that were all the explanation he required. “We’re gonna need it,” he said. “That guy’s a piece of work. But, who knows, maybe you’ll have better luck with him. You’re her sister—that might . . .” He put his finger near his temple and swirled it in the air. “Scramble him all up.”

“You just told me five seconds ago that that would be a bad thing,” I reminded him. “You said I might trigger him.”

“Right,” Ben said, “but I’m going to be in there with you, so it’s okay. I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Would you please spare me the chivalrous bullshit? I’m pretty sure I can handle Tommy Dent. You can just go home, all right? I came here to speak to him by myself, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

I said it with all the confidence I could muster, but the truth was—I didn’t actually want to be alone with Tommy; he was so much bigger and gruffer than I remembered. When I started walking toward the front steps, as if to carry on by myself and leave Ben behind, there was a tiny part of me, somewhere so deep I wouldn’t have even known where to find it, that was relieved when Ben wrapped his hand around my arm and steered me back toward the curb.

“Listen,” he said. “This isn’t about me trying to be some sort of gentleman. I know you’re strong. Just look at what you’ve been through.” He gestured to the space around us, as if all my life experiences had happened in that cold and biting air. “But Persephone was tough, too. And . . .”

His face tightened, as if he’d tasted something he wanted to spit out. “Let’s just agree to work together,” he said. “We can have each other’s backs, okay?” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”

His fingers—they were long and thin, twitching slightly in the air as he waited for me to place my palm against his. I remembered the print of them on Persephone’s skin, the purple ovals he left on her each night. But I remembered them on my own skin, too, the way he’d held the paper towel to my neck in the hospital the day before—firm but gentle. He could have hurt me right then, could have pressed down harder until my skin ached with the promise of bruises, but he stopped when I’d protested. He’d watched the towel fall to the floor and then, instead of grabbing me the way I’d always imagined he’d grabbed Persephone, he just calmly bent over and picked the towel off the ground.