Page 34 of Outcast’s Return

I can’t help but let out a little laugh, no more than a chortle, but it’s enough to pierce whatever tension sits between us.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, now a hell of a lot softer and more serious than before.

“Doing what? Cleaning you up?”

“No, this. This week. Letting yourself be used for a Castaways task. You hate them. You’ve always hated them.”

I shrug.

“It’s all because of Father,” I lie.

“Sure.”

“I would do anything for my family, Fabien. You know that. And, right now, my father needs my support.”

“Really?”

I glare at him.

“Yes, really.”

“He’s the only reason?”

I continue to glare at the man.

“He asked me to do this, and I have never let him down,” I snap back. “And he needs me. Especially with what’s happening with the Masked Killer.”

Fabien’s eyes darken. His lips narrow. Burning rage radiating off him again.

“Yes. Him.”

I pause.

Shit. I forgot.

The Masked Killer. His parents.

“Sorry for mentioning him,” I stutter. “I didn’t mean... I’m sorry it’s all happening again. It must be so hard, him coming back.”

Fabien’s blank.

“It is what it is,” he replies slowly. “Baptiste is helping the Castaways find him. I’m doing my own investigation. This time, he won’t get away. I’ll find the bastard and make him pay for everything he’s done.”

Why are you running your big mouth, Jolie?

He looks so serious. I forgot about that landmine I’ve obliviously stepped on. I forgot the role the Masked Killer has had in Fabien’s life. I can’t begin to imagine the pain and anger he must be dealing with now that his parents’ murderer has returned. I don’t doubt for a second his ability to burn the world to get his revenge.

I take a deep breath.

“I know you hate me, Fabien,” I say, “but I want you to know you don’t have to speak to me at all this week. We can fake the... physical... thing. We don’t have to do it. We don’t have to follow through. We can lie.”

He’s now glaring at me.

“They are always watching, Jolie. You said it yourself. They’ll want some kind of proof.”

He’s right, of course, but I don’t dare admit it.

I continue cleaning his knuckles. We don’t speak another word until I’ve washed every bruise.