When No One Is Watching(63)

“Well, I think that’s nicer than being in a cemetery somewhere with a bunch of strangers. You buried her someplace she loved.” He sighs deeply and smooths both hands down his beard, but then nods. “It’s illegal as fuck, but I’m not exactly one to judge that. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you, going there every day, not able to tell anyone. How unfair it was that you were pushed to make that decision.” His gaze rests on me, and there’s no judgment among the various emotions in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sydney.”

It’s the last sorry that breaks me. He’s said it a few times, but this one finally sinks in. I’ve gotten so used to apologizing for being too weak to carry my own burdens—I don’t know if anyone’s ever apologized to me for how heavy they are, even if they couldn’t do anything to lighten the load.

I put the water bottle down and drop my head to the tabletop, one swift motion to hide the fissure of pain his words open in me. A silent sob chokes me up, but the bands of fear and panic that have been squeezing me for months fall away.

I can breathe. I take in a deep shuddering breath, and when I exhale it’s like a dam breaking.

He rubs my back and lets me cry; the tears pool on the table and cool against my heated face, but I don’t stop.

At some point he slips his arm through mine and half carries me to the couch as I sob and sob and sob, but for the first time in a long time, it feels something like relief. I keen into his chest, and he just cradles me.

I don’t even care if he reports me to the police after this, really. Right now, it feels good to be held without judgment, without feeling weak or evil or like I let Mommy down, even if just for a few minutes.

I don’t know how much time has gone by when the sobs taper off, but he’s still holding me, still rubbing his hand over my back.

“The people who scammed her out of the house don’t know,” he says. His voice is rough and low.

“No. They keep calling to check in and I keep making excuses. But I’m starting to feel crazy, like they’re watching me. Like they’re gonna find out and then come and take everything. And the garden, today . . .” A wave of full-body terror seizes me as I remember the breathing on the other end of the phone.

No. They would have just arrested me, though that seems inevitable.

“If they start digging for a foundation. They’ll find her. It’ll all be over. The house will be taken. I’ll be in jail.”

The well of panic I’ve just cried out starts to fill again.

“Okay. Okay. Don’t worry about that for now. It usually takes a while for a place to get building permits and all that jazz.” He’s still speaking as if this is a perfectly normal situation, and it helps to calm me. Maybe it isn’t normal, but it is what it is.

“I don’t think these people are exactly bound by the rules,” I say. “The deed they had was approved, but it was fake. I know it was. The supposed new owner of the plot got so mad when I questioned him, like how people blow up when they’re trying to hide something and want to scare you from the truth. And there’s nothing I can do.”

We sit in silence. Theo’s heart is beating fast even though he seems outwardly calm, and I remember him grinning at me and telling me his own secret.

Theo is a liar. A grifter, with possible ties to the mob. He’s a man I’ve known for just a few days.

I’ve entrusted him with the one thing that can destroy what’s left of my life and possibly take out Drea, too.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I say, not nearly as upset as I should be because my body is limp like a wet washcloth. I’ll probably be angrier with myself tomorrow. But I’ve felt so heavy for so long, and now I’m light, like I could float away from all these problems for just a little bit.

“Go to sleep, Sydney.” Theo brushes his hand over my braids, then exerts pressure, holding me against him. It’s this stillness that makes me realize I’m shaking.

“But—”

“Just go to sleep,” he says gently.

I do.

WHEN I WAKE up a few hours later, I’m stretched out on the couch and the throw blanket from Target that usually rests on one of the arms is tucked around me. I sit up, head throbbing and face swollen, and find another bottle of water, some Advil, and a cold compress from the freezer sitting on the coffee table. They’ve been there for a while, judging from the condensation.

I consider that maybe this was a farewell gift before he went and called the police—though, maybe they would have been here by now? Unless they’re at the garden . . .

But he isn’t exactly the kind of person who would want to invite the attention of the police, either.

I palm the two pills and take a sip of the water to wash them down, then pick up the cold compress and stare at it for a minute. This is some thoughtful shit.

I lay it over my swollen eyes, but when a memory flashes in my mind from that horrible night in the garden, I pull it off, throw it back onto the coffee table, and go to the kitchen to look for another cigarette.

There’re other things I should be doing. Going to the police myself, to explain what happened? Running off to Belize, which has no extradition treaty but does have those cute manatees? I could create a new life as a never-married manatee tour guide whose mother is absolutely fine but won’t come to visit, and no one would ever know about my past.