He's swift, easily moving up the confined stairway as if I weren't slung over his shoulder. I can feel the sinewy muscles along his back, taught and lean. I have a feeling that's all there is under this shirt. Guess eating like a middle-aged man pays off.
He sets me down on a cool, supple leather surface. When I open my eyes, black circles float before them. I sway in the seat, afraid I might pass out. Bending forward between my knees, I concentrate on breathing.
"Here, drink this." Brendan holds out a glass in front of me. I shoot it down and cough instantly. The fiery liquid burns the entire way down.
"Thanks," I say between coughs. "I didn't need my throat."
"You going to be okay?"
I slowly lean back and wait for my pulse to return to normal. My eyes slowly shift up to meet his. He's standing above me, dressed in dark slacks and a grey shirt, looking like he's ready for a GQ photoshoot, not like he just emerged from a dungeon.
"Yeah.
"He's dead, you know."
I don't have to ask who he means.
I study him, waiting for an explanation that doesn't come. "How do you know what happened?"
He shrugs casually and leans against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. "Wasn't hard to figure out. The police in Sherling aren't the brightest, are they?" When I only stare at him, he continues. "I read the police report on your grandmother's death. I know you refused to talk to them, never answered a single question. But you did tell everyone what happened."
I swallow, an acrid taste rising in the back of my throat.
"Wolfe. Morgan Wolfe. Hell, you pretty much named him in the story you wrote."
"How did you ..." I croak, unable to finish.
"It was submitted to Blackwood as part of your admission file, along with your transcript. You're a talented storyteller. A bit
dark and twisted, but good."
"Why do you care so much about my life?"
"I told you, the truth is much more interesting than the lies."
"Do you know this much about Ashton? Or is it just me you're obsessed with?"
"I wouldn't call it an obsession. That sounds so ... creepy." He grins and I glare at him. "It's intriguing, really. Putting the pieces of a person together, to better understand why they are who they are. Probably has to do with understanding my mother's suicide, but I don't care for psychoanalysis."
"And Ashton?" I persist.
"I'm not going to talk to you about her," he says sternly. I see a flash of something hard in his eyes. Is he ... protecting her?
I decide not to push him about it, even though I'm becoming more concerned for her by the second. "Fine."
"Aren't you curious?" he asks. I narrow my eyes, not following. "How he died? Your beast." I remain silent. "He was stabbed in a bar fight, about a year and a half ago. Strange, right? That he died just like in your fairytale, by a blade."
"Why do I get the feeling you know more than you're saying?"
"Don't I always?" Brendan smirks like he is a vault of secrets, and has swallowed the key. "Is it better, knowing he's dead?"
I shake my head. "Doesn't bring back my grandmother. Or erase what he did."
"I'm sorry about your grandmother," he says sincerely.
"She hated lying, more than anything." My voice is weak when I first speak. I glance up at him quickly, then back down at the floor. "We made a promise to never lie to each other. And she said breaking a promise was worse than a lie, so I never did. Even when I wanted to. It doesn't mean I always told the truth. But I never lied to her."
I swipe at the tear that snuck out of my eye. "That night ... it was the last time I ever lied, to anyone. I chose to keep the truth to myself instead. And maybe that's worse, I don't know. It's what I do. I either tell the truth or keep it trapped inside. But I never lie."