Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,20

up something.

“Sorry, Mr. Pharos, but that’s all the time I have right now,” I finally tell him. “I have another place to be. You can fill out the paperwork and send it back to me, if you decide to proceed.”

“Okay,” he says. “I understand.” We shake hands again, but he doesn’t go. He just stands there, looking at me. I can’t read his expression.

Then he says, “I know who you are.”

Oh man. I brace myself and try to keep my voice light when I say, “A licensed pilot? You’d better hope so if you want me to teach you to fly.”

“You live with the serial killer’s wife.”

I was going to blow it off, minimize where he was going, but suddenly I feel my hackles go up, sharp as nails. “Gwen Proctor is my partner, yes. Not his wife.”

“Ex-wife, I meant,” he says. “Sorry.” I want to snap off something else, but I don’t. I just wait. I still don’t get any particular emotion from him, even now, when most people would show something . . . discomfort, at least. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I can see that,” I say, and miracle of miracles, my voice sounds pretty even. “So yeah. That’s me. And I’d rather leave my personal life out of this, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I’ve not had anyone recognize me before out of the immediate context of being with Gwen or the kids, and it stings unpleasantly; I’m starting to understand, in a very minor way, how Gwen feels all the time. “Sorry. I really do need to go. And I think you should find another flight instructor. Nothing personal, I just . . . like to keep it separate.”

For the first time, I see a little flicker of something like feeling in him. “I understand. It’s just . . .” He shakes his head and turns away. “Never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought you might be able to help.”

I know I shouldn’t do it, but there’s something about the subdued tone that gets to me. I say, “Help with what?”

“I—” He takes in a breath and lets it trickle out slowly before he manages the rest. “My sister was murdered too.”

I feel that go through me like a bullet, and for a second I can’t breathe. A jumble of things floods through my head—crime scene photos, my sister’s horrifically mutilated body, Gwen’s face, Melvin Royal’s mug shot—and I realize I’ve let the silence go on too long. “By Melvin Royal?” I thought I knew all the victim family members, and he doesn’t seem familiar.

“No,” he says. “Just—by someone. They never caught him.”

That’s a nightmare that I’ve never lived . . . not knowing who killed my sister. Not seeing him brought to justice. For a second or two I can’t even attempt a reply, but then I say, “I’m sorry. That must be really hard.” It hits me, then. “You . . . didn’t come here for the flying lessons, did you?”

“No,” he says. It’s almost a whisper. “I . . . somebody told me about you, and I thought you might understand. Might be somebody to talk to about it. Because I can’t talk to anybody else about her.”

I’ve been reading him wrong, I think. He isn’t emotionless. He’s locked up, wearing an emotional straitjacket. Afraid to express any emotion because once he cracks that door, he might not control what comes out.

And I feel that because I know that place. It’s where I lived for a while, before I moved on to darker places that I don’t like to remember.

“Have you tried seeing a professional? Doing therapy?” I ask. I know a lot of men are resistant to it. Particularly if they blame themselves. It took a lot to get me moving in the right direction. “Because if you need somebody, I have some good contacts—”

Tyler’s already shaking his head. “No, no, it’s okay. I just—I thought maybe you’d understand. That we could talk a little bit. But I understand if you’re busy.”

I am busy. But not that busy. I could spare him a few minutes, at least. Grief twisted me into something bitterly wrong, and I’ve taken years to come back from that. A long, tough climb to get to a relatively stable place. The instructions from flight attendants keep running through my head: put your mask on first before you help others. I’m not sure my