The Enigma (Unlawful Men)
“To you or them?”
“To me.”
To her. Most importantly, who am I to her? I move in and lower behind her, framing her seated form with my thighs. I wrap my arms around her upper body and pull her into me, placing my mouth at her ear. She doesn’t resist. “To you, I’m freedom.”
“Hello, freedom,” she whispers, and I swallow, relaxing, as she starts to turn in my arms. I release her, just enough to let her, and she kneels before me, taking my arms from around her back one at a time. Her eyes meet mine. Resolute. “I’m ready to know who you are. Are you ready to tell me?”
I nod, even though I know and accept that I can’t tell her everything. “Will you leave?” It’s an unfair question, and, crazily, it feels like telling her I’m a killer will be the easy part. Because she’s worked that out for herself. And, whether I wanted to or not, I helped her along the way to enlightenment. I’m still unsure why. Maybe because I see life beyond death and revenge with this woman. Am I capable of that? And do I deserve it?
“I don’t want to,” she whispers.
I guess that’s all I can ask for. “Let me take you home.”
“You mean to your home,” she says, staring at me with so much acceptance in her eyes, I honestly don’t know what to do with it.
“My home.”
She nods and stands, looking at me and offering her good hand. I take it tentatively and she tugs, as if her small frame and strength actually contributes to pulling me up.
I tuck her into my side and walk us out of the graveyard. “The cab,” she says, pointing. “I told him to leave the meter running.”
“I’ll sort it.” I deposit her in the passenger seat of my car before wandering over to the cab, pulling off some notes and handing them over.
“There’s a bag on the back seat,” he says, motioning over his shoulder.
I frown and look back to Beau. She’s daydreaming, staring out of the window. I reach for the paper bag, open it, and freeze. “What the—?” I stare at the box for an eternity, trying to turn it into something else. Anything else. A minute later, I’m still gazing at a pregnancy test. “Oh Jesus,” I whisper, my mind not telling me what the fuck to do. I pull it out of the bag and stuff it in the back of my jeans, slamming the door of the cab and pacing back to my car, my head fucking bent.
I slip in beside her. Regard her closely. She’s despondent. Distant. “Where did you go?” I ask, starting the car and crawling along the gravel lane. A fucking pregnancy test?
“Nath,” she says quietly, looking out of the window. Which means she doesn’t see my unstoppable widening eyes. “A friend.”
Fuck me, she was with that corrupt shit? When? I’ve got eyes on him.
“And my ex.” Now, she does look at me. For a reaction? I know my tight jaw is giving her one. When was the last time she slept with her ex? “They’re both FBI,” she adds.
“And they’ve looked me up,” I say, feeling the tightening of my grip on the wheel.
“They didn’t find a thing past five years.”
“That’s because I didn’t exist, Beau.”
She says nothing. She doesn’t need to.
I return my eyes to the road. “But I exist to you.” I take her hand from her lap and squeeze. “To everyone else, I’m illusive.” Such a statement should earn a gasp. A cry of realization. The retraction of her hand from mine.
Not Beau. She slowly looks away and gazes out of the window, processing what she’s learned about me.
She doesn’t look like she wants to bolt. But there is one thing that’ll have her walking away from me, so I have to ensure she doesn’t find out. Beau’s mom was relentless. Frustrating as fuck. Always there in the background ready to fuck everything up. One way or another, I knew she would end up dead. She pissed off too many people with her hunger and persistence, started to uncover too many truths. I don’t want Beau to follow the same path.
I pull to a stop at the junction, and a fleeting look at my rearview mirror has me stalling from indicating. A BMW in the distance, the nose of the car just jutting out of a dirt track we passed. I flick my eyes to Beau. She’s oblivious, still gazing out of the window. I slowly return my eyes to the mirror, pushing down the lever for my indicator as I do, edging forward a few feet, waiting. The car appears.
I pull away, smooth and calm, glancing at my mirror constantly. I’m at least three hundred yards down the road before it gets to the junction, keeping a safe distance. Not safe enough. And way too close for comfort. My fingers start drumming the wheel, my mind strategizing. God damn state laws in Florida. No fucking front license plate. But it’s a BMW. Butler drives a BMW. I look across to Beau, finding her still gazing out of the window. Still oblivious. I pull my phone out and text Otto.