Home > Two is a Lie (Tangled Lies #2)(3)

Two is a Lie (Tangled Lies #2)(3)
Author: Pam Godwin

We should move into the living room or somewhere with more space. But there isn’t a room in my house large enough to contain this.

I kick off my fuzzy slippers and climb onto the bed. With my back against the headboard, I chew my thumbnail, fidget with the pull strings on my hoodie, sip the coffee, and wait for someone to speak.

The silence endures.

Awkward, pregnant, miserable goddamn silence.

I draw a steeling breath and search Cole’s eyes. “What are you going to do, Cole?”

“I’m going to fight for you.” His jaw flexes, and he sets down the mug.

“Fight for me? All I see is you glaring at your colleague, best friend, or whatever Trace is to you. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in the fucking dark without a clue as to where you’ve been or what you do for a living.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I can’t tell you, Danni.” A tortured whisper.

My blood heats. “I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do.” He sucks in a harsh breath and slams a fist against his palm. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I don’t even recognize you.”

Where are his tattoos? And he always kept his brown hair clipped high and tight. Now it’s long enough to run my fingers through, at least an inch around his ears and thicker on top. His jawline’s still square, but narrower. His entire face seems drawn, emaciated, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones. He’s a beautiful man, even now, but he looks so different. Unhealthy.

“You look like shit,” Trace mutters. “Does anyone know you’re stateside?”

“Just my handler.” Cole meets his eyes. “I assume the house is clean?”

“Spotless,” Trace says.

What the hell?

“You’re obviously not talking about housekeeping.” I gesture at the dirty laundry all over the floor. “What does spotless mean?”

They continue to glare at each other. But this is more than a silent sparring match. They’re sharing some kind of a wordless conversation I’m not privy to.

I was being watched. Everything I did was monitored, tracked, and recorded.

Is the house clean?

“Does your job put me in danger?” A chill drips down my spine as I think about how careless I’ve been with my safety. “Is that why you’re both always on me about locking my doors? And what do you mean by is the house clean? Is there a chance it was bugged?”

“Locking your doors is common sense.” Trace glances at me over his shoulder, his expression stone-cold. “And no. No one knows about your connection to Cole.”

“Except my handler.” Cole relentlessly rakes a hand through his hair. “He’s the man who came here three years ago.”

“Robert Wright.” My neck goes taut against the memory. “He’s the one who told me you were dead.”

“Not his real name, but yes.” Cole looks at Trace. “He’s the only person who has access to my whereabouts.”

“Can you trust him?” I wrap an arm around my waist, hating the paranoid thoughts they’re putting in my head.

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you about his visit with me?” My voice croaks as I relive the gutting horror of that day.

I don’t hear the door shut, don’t feel the couch beneath me, don’t taste the tears flooding my face. The agony is all-consuming, crippling my body, twisting me into something unrecognizable, and spiraling me into a shapeless, hopeless place.

“No. He wouldn’t tell me anything about you.” Cole inhales deeply. “He thought it was best that I focus on staying alive.”

Cole was in danger. Life-threatening danger that forced him into hiding, and I had no idea.

“Before you left, I specifically asked if your safety was a concern, and you laughed at me when you told me no.”

He stares at his feet, unable to meet my eyes.

“Were you even in Iraq?” I ask.

The liar pins his lying lips and doesn’t look at me. Maybe Trace can shed some light.

“You said you used to work together?” I wave a hand between them. “Is that how you became best friends?”

“Yes.” Trace slides a knee onto the mattress as he shifts to face me. “I used to be his handler.”

“You keep using that term.” I finish off the coffee and set the mug on the nightstand. “I don’t know what handler means, because I don’t know what Cole does for a living.”

“I’m bound by the same secrecy agreement as Cole, but I’ll try to explain…” Trace strokes his chin, as if carefully choosing his words. “Here’s an analogy. The handler of a weapon controls how the weapon approaches a target and decides when and where to aim.”

A weapon. He said it was an analogy, but he chose that example for a reason. He wants me to understand the severity of Cole’s job.

“Okay, so you were Cole’s handler, and you called the shots.” I study Trace’s unreadable expression. “And Cole is what? Some kind of assassin?”

“No.” Cole drags a hand down his face. “Don’t dig, Danni.”

“Do you kill people?”

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, refusing to answer.

I bristle with frustration and turn to Trace. “Are you retired from this handler job?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not employed by the government or whomever Cole works for?”

“Correct. I’m completely severed from that business. I own the casino and work for myself.”

“But it’s okay for you to know about Cole’s job and not me?” I feel like I’m pulling teeth to collect tiny pieces of a convoluted puzzle.

“Since I was intimately involved in his prior jobs, I knew…things.” Trace’s mouth bounces between a flat line and a frown. “But I know nothing about his last mission.”

“Except you knew there was a chance he survived it.”

“I knew Cole wouldn’t have been stationed at an oil terminal, therefore, I knew he didn’t die in an explosion.” Trace rubs his brow. “What I didn’t know was if the story about the explosion was a cover for his actual death.”

“Bullshit.” Cole clenches his jaw. “You know how hard it is to kill me. I’m fucking trained—”

“No one’s impossible to kill.” Trace lifts his head, glaring at Cole. “You went on that mission knowing your heart wasn’t in it. You were preoccupied, unfocused. Frankly, I’m surprised you survived.”

“What’s he talking about?” I ask Cole, my stomach twisting into knots.

Cole scrapes a hand over the back of his head, frowning at Trace. “My job doesn’t allow for personal distractions. We don’t have relationships or attachments or—”

“Girlfriends? I was a distraction?” My voice is thin, pitted with alarm.

“No,” he says heatedly. “You’re the reason I fought so damn hard to stay alive. When I met you, I knew I’d have to complete this last job and that I’d survive it—for you—then I could quit.” His timbre drops to a tormented whisper. “The job should’ve only taken a year. A year, and I would’ve been back with you, married, and maybe even planning a family.”

His gaze falls to the ring on my finger, and he clenches his hands. The agony lining his expression is gut-wrenching, and my stomach cramps in sympathy.

Had he returned within a year as planned, we’d be together. I would’ve been oblivious about the true nature of his job, and Trace would’ve never made contact with me. Maybe that’s the way it was supposed to be, but the pang in my chest disagrees.

My relationship with Trace undoubtedly made Cole’s homecoming a clusterfuck. I would’ve still been furious and resentful with Cole, but I would’ve eventually forgiven him for being gone and let it go. Because I love him.

But Trace is here, and no part of me regrets meeting him or falling in love with him. How could I? He was here for me when Cole wasn’t. He showed me how to smile, hope, and love again.

   
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