Daughter of Deep Silence by Carrie Ryan
But not for much longer.
THIRTY-SIX
There’s still a crowd of reporters at the end of the driveway and when they notice me in the passenger seat of Grey’s car they practically explode with questions. Morales’s officers struggle to push them back and it’s several moments before we’re free.
Grey lets out a long breath as he accelerates down the road and away from it all. “God, I get so tired of them,” he mutters, checking the mirrors to make sure we’re not being followed.
“I’d have thought you might be used to them, with your father’s job and all,” I say.
He practically shudders. “No. Dad’s a fan of the camera and so is Mom, but not me. I had enough of them after the Persephone.”
We stop at an intersection and at the press of a button the roof recedes, bathing us in sunlight. I tilt my head back, watching the canopy of old oaks pass by overhead as he continues toward the mainland.
“Was it bad?” I finally ask. “Back then—with the media?” I find that I’m genuinely curious.
“One of them climbed in my window.” He glances over his shoulder and then slides into the next lane as we approach the bridge off the island. “I was at home alone, taking a shower at the time,” he adds.
“You’re kidding me!” In all my research, I’d never heard mention of this.
“Yep, she got pictures of me, naked in all my glory,” he says, a smile beginning to ease across his lips.
I groan at how embarrassing that must have been. “What happened?”
“My dad had private security back then—one of them caught her trying to climb back down the tree. He confiscated her equipment and, uh, convinced her that it was in her best interest to forget everything that happened.”
I can’t help laughing. “Wow, you did have it bad!”
He glances over at me. “How were you able to escape it all?”
My smile turns a bit brittle and he realizes that he already knows the answer. How I’d mentioned all the doctors and shrinks, trying to get my memory back. Trying to recover.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” he says, refocusing on the road. Below us, the marsh falls away under the bridge, receding toward the creek. The day’s too beautiful for our moods to be so heavy.
“No, it’s okay,” I tell him. “Dad thought it would be easier for me if I recovered overseas and then it just seemed like the easiest thing would be for me to stay there for school.”
“Were you able to keep up with your old friends at all?” he asks.
I have to choke back laughter. My old friends—the few that I had—thought I was dead. “No. It was just easier to start over. Clean slate.”
His smiles wistfully. “I’m envious.”
“You still had your family,” I point out.
It’s a direct hit. Color drains from his face and he swallows. His hands tighten around the wheel. “Look, maybe this isn’t really a good idea. We should go back.”
I turn in my seat to face him. “Hey,” I say softly, resting my fingertips lightly on his thigh. “Maybe talking about the Persephone is a bad idea. But us, this”—I gesture at us and the car and the bridge stretching out ahead of us—“this is an excellent idea.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I watch as he slowly, but visibly relaxes.
“New rule,” I say. “No more Persephone. Deal?”
He smiles. “Deal.”
“So, to very unsubtly change the subject, what kind of books do you like to read? And so help me if you say Greek mythology, I’ll turn this car around myself.”
It takes him a minute to get my joke, and then he starts laughing and I join in. And there’s something about it all—the expanse of the summer sky arcing overhead and my hand still on Grey’s warm thigh—that makes me wonder if I could just pause life here and wrap a bubble around this moment, if it would be enough to keep me happy.
Walking with Grey around Charleston, I catch a glimpse of him as though he were just another guy. Not Senator Wells’s son or a Persephone survivor. Here, in the bustling stalls of the market, he’s anonymous. And it’s obvious how much he prefers it this way.
His shoulders relax, his smile comes quicker, and the stress lines around his eyes ease. When he laughs, there’s something so earnest and carefree about it that I almost wish this could be his life.
Even our life.
Because, somehow, I’ve become anonymous as well. I relax my grip on the Libby mask I always clutch so fervidly. It’s almost too easy, setting aside her desires, her preferences, her habits that so rigidly control my life at every other moment.
When we walk into an art gallery, a brief respite of air-conditioning on the hot, humid day, I allow myself to linger in front of the paintings that I like. Not the ones I think Libby would have liked. I stop worrying about making sure my smile tilts sideways, that my laugh is demure, that my passion is checked.
And I remember—more than anything else—I remember just how easy it was to be with Grey. How naturally we fell into stride next to each other, how often we gravitated toward the same things—the same music, the same books, the same foods.
How time could just slip away when we talked—about anything and nothing. There’s no awkwardness.
It’s almost like falling in love again, and as the day wears into evening and we find a quiet restaurant with white tablecloths and flickering candles, I have to remind myself again and again that Greyson Wells is not for me.
There is a plan. And it involves Grey falling for me so that I can gain access to his life. So that I can get back into his bedroom and find out what’s in the envelope hidden behind the picture frame. So that I can turn him against his father and expose the truth.
That’s all this is: part of the plan.
But I’m lying to myself. I know this. Because when I look across the table at him all I can do is wonder . . . If the Persephone had never sunk. If I were still Frances. Could we have still somehow found ourselves in this place together?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Grey pulls his car next to mine in his driveway and kills the engine. The Wellses’ house hulks like a beast before us—strategically placed outdoor lighting casting sharp shadows. Neither one of us moves.
For a moment today, it felt like I’d actually escaped. I’d gotten a glimpse of what a normal life might have been. And once I step out of the car, reality will drape over me again like a smothering blanket.
He shifts toward me. “Today was . . .” His voice trails off. He doesn’t have to finish because it’s all there on his face. I know what he looks like when he’s starting to fall in love. I’ve experienced it all before. I recognize it again now.
A ghost of a smile traces my lips. “It was.”
With our seat belts still fastened, there’s no way for us to move closer, at least not without clearly stating our intentions to do so. And this is all too young and new for that.
The moment breaks when a light on the front stoop flashes on. A shadow moves behind the crystallized glass of the foyer window. Blushing, I reach for the door. “It’s late, I should go,” I murmur.
There’s disappointment in his eyes.
“But, um . . .” I clear my throat, wondering whether there’s a way to sneak up to his room and grab that envelope tonight. “Do you think I could use your restroom first? Dinner was a long car ride ago.”
He laughs. “Of course.” Once inside he leads me down a hallway and points to a powder room. “I’ll wait in the kitchen,” he says.
I’ve barely closed the door when I hear voices. Holding my breath, I pull back open the door a crack and listen.
“I told you I didn’t want you seeing that girl,” Grey’s father growls. One side of the hallway is lined with windows and I can just make out his blurry reflection in the glass. He stands in the kitchen, pouring a drink.
“Dad—” Grey protests.
His father spins toward him, finger pointing and expression pulled into a grimace. “She’s dangerous for this family, Greyson. And she’d dangerous for you. Get her out of this house and then stay away.” He punctuates that last bit by jabbing his finger against Grey’s chest.
Grey grabs his father’s arm before he can say more. “Shh! She’ll hear you.”
The Senator whips his head in my direction, and I duck behind the door, heart pounding. I have no idea whether he saw my reflection or not. Carefully I click the door closed as footsteps pound down the hallway. I cringe as they near, waiting for them to stop. But they only slow slightly before continuing past.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I flush the toilet and wash my hands. It’s obvious I won’t be getting that envelope tonight, which means biding my time—laying the foundation so I have an excuse to come back. Even if it is against his father’s wishes.
Smiling as though I’ve overhead nothing and everything’s fine, I open the door and start toward the kitchen. Grey stands with his back to me, hands braced against the island and chin dropped to his chest. His shoulders rise and fall as he struggles to control his breathing.
I pause by the door. “Hey—thanks for today.”
He turns, cheeks mottled with anger and my smile freezes in place. “You okay?” I ask, as though I have no idea about the confrontation that just took place.
He clenches his teeth, the muscles along his jaw tensing, before finally he shoves a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”
But he’s so clearly lying.
“Hey,” I say softly, moving closer. “What’s going on?”
From somewhere deep in the house there’s the muffled bang of a door slamming. Grey winces and glances over my shoulder. “Nothing. I’ll walk you out.” The last bit he says in a defeated voice and I know there’s no changing his mind.
I follow him down the hallway to the front door, him lost in thought and me silent. But once outside he pauses and then, just as the door closes behind me, he turns. In two steps he’s in front of me, hardly any space separating our bodies.
Instantly my heart begins to pound. But not from fear or surprise. Grey’s proximity sparks everything inside me, memories surging to the surface as I remember his taste, his smell, his touch.
Frances roars to life under my skin.
His khakis brush against my thighs, and when I struggle to take a deep breath, my chest skims against his. A riot of adrenaline courses deep, causing my insides to twist with need. The door at my back seems like the only solid thing in my life at this moment.
He sways, imperceptibly closer, and ever so slightly I arch to meet him. His pupils swallow his eyes with desire and his breath catches, causing my toes to curl.
I lick my lips. Swallow. Wait.
His voice is a rough-edged growl. “Everything in my life has turned upside down since you came back into it.” There’s an angry undercurrent to what he’s saying, but it’s tempered by desperation.
“I’m sorr—”
He steps in closer, cutting me off. I make a sound low in my throat, not understanding how there’s still space separating us. He looms over me now in a way that causes me to crane my neck just to meet his eyes.
One of his hands reaches out, teases at the fabric of my shirt, finding the hem and slipping to the bare flesh just beneath it. Every touch of his fingertips is a jolt of sensation. Breathing becomes impossible.
“Ever since that first day on the beach, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
A burst of warmth breaks free low in my abdomen.
“And then later,” he continues, “when you were in the pool, drifting just out of reach.” His fingers dance along my hip toward my back, setting me on fire from the outside in.
I press my palms flat against the door behind me, needing to feel something but afraid to reach for him.
His head drops lower and for a moment I think he’s about to finally kiss me. But instead he shifts, bringing his lips slowly to my ear. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined what would have happened if I’d just gone in after you?”
My nails dig against the wood of the door.
But then his hand drops from my back and air floods between us. I swallow, wanting to protest, until I see his eyes. They burn.
“No one’s made me feel this way in years.” His whisper is rough, calloused. “I want you, Libby.”
For so long, Greyson Wells has been nothing but a target—a means to an end. All of my rage and pain and confusion I’ve heaped on his shoulders. But in this moment, all of that falls away.
And I realize the mistake I’ve made. Because I want him as well. Not just the Frances part of me who’s always wanted him, but the rest of me. The part of me that laughed with him this afternoon. That was drawn to him in the pool before. That likes the way he looks at me.
You loved him once, a voice reminds me.
This isn’t love, I argue back. I won’t let it be.
Then you’ve got nothing to lose, the voice says.
And I know I’m just lying to myself, but it’s a lie that I want to believe.
I release my hands from the door at my back and I let my fingers finally curl against the waistband of his khakis, my knuckles grazing the warm skin of his hips as I tug him closer. He sucks in a breath at my touch.
“Then have me,” I whisper.
His lips land on mine, and it’s like coming to the surface after drowning. All desperate need that eclipses everything else. He presses me against the door and we’re a tangle of heart-hammering desire and panting need.
With one hand I tug the rest of his shirt free of his pants and with the other I grip his neck. Dragging him closer. Needing more of him. His teeth sink possessively into my lower lip and I groan low and long in my throat.
I’m thrown back in time. The feel of his heated breath feathering against my jaw, the taste of him drifting across my tongue. That sharp tang of salt, the sound of the ocean.
Everything is familiar. As though nothing has changed. As though the ship never sank and he never lied and our future is spread out before us.
As if this could become our new truth. Him and me. Together.
I stop fighting and allow myself to believe it all, right then. That such a thing is possible. “Grey,” I gasp, my nails digging into his hair, tugging lightly.
He freezes. Every part of him going still at once like a rabbit caught in the floodlights. Bracing his hands on the door next to my head, he pushes back, putting distance between us.
His eyes devour me, confusion and wonder tangling together, and for a split second I think he knows. If he was this familiar to me, wouldn’t the same be true for him? The taste of Frances? The sound of Frances? The feel of Frances?
I’m instantly aware of just how fast my breathing’s become and I realize in that moment how desperately I want to be found out. To hear him murmur my name—my real name—into my ear like he did so many times before.
He lets his head fall against my shoulder and his lips press against the skin there—right where my throat meets my collarbone.
I suck in a shuddering gasp of air. My body is the same as Frances’s. My responses the same. He already knows me—how to find the spots that cause my heart to stumble and then roar.
He smiles against me and I’m convinced he’s figured it out. Until he murmurs the name Libby against my flesh. And it’s almost as though he’s saying it to remind himself.
I go cold inside. Everything blooming pulled tight once more.
How stupid could I be to allow myself to hope? Why would he think me anyone else?
Who expects to find a dead girl in his arms?
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to care about someone again,” he confesses. “No one’s made me feel this
Frances.
A surge of possession sinks through me. It should be impossible to be jealous of yourself. Yet, somehow, this is the situation I’ve found myself in.
Desperate for him to continue loving the girl I used to be.
Desperate for him to forget her so that he can be with the girl I am now.
In the wake of my silence, he raises his head. Lines appear across his forehead. Lifting a finger, he trails his thumb just under my eye, and when I look down I find the dampness of tears.
I realize, then, that this has gone too far.
I’ve let my emotions interfere. I need to pull myself together and regain control.
I slip a hand between us, pressing against his chest. Trying not to notice the ridges of his muscles flexing under my touch. “I should go.” He straightens instantly, worried he’s done something wrong.
There’s something I should say here, I know this. Some piece to the puzzle of revenge I’ve so carefully been assembling. But my mind refuses to focus.
Not with the taste of Grey still fresh on my lips. His smell clinging to the air in my lungs. His touch skittering over my skin like goose bumps.
All I can muster is a good night before fleeing down the steps to my car and starting for home. Telling myself the same thing over and over: He is not yours to have.
Whether I’m talking to Libby or to Frances, I’m not sure.
THIRTY-EIGHT
My thoughts are so tangled with Grey that I drive right past the entrance to my driveway. I don’t bother turning around, don’t even tap the brakes. I just keep going, my headlights illuminating the night ahead only as far as I need to see.
I can still taste Grey on my lips. Still smell him. Still feel the warmth of his fingertips pressing against my back. Even my pulse hasn’t returned to normal. I roll down the window, wanting to flush the car of his scent. Needing the fresh air to clear my head.