Page 104 of Bound Lies

A tightness coils in my chest as I skim through the records.

I knew that her mother’s death was traumatic from the way she shut down my attempt to ask her about it when we were in Vegas, but she never mentioned she had a sister.

According to the records, she was fourteen when the accident happened, which means she was old enough to remember every little detail.

As I read, one of the early notes that the therapist scribbled down stands out to me.

The patient displays symptoms of survivor’s guilt but remains highly resilient.

Shows above-average empathy and maturity.

Engages well.

Coping mechanisms are largely healthy.

I swallow hard.

Riley was in the car when they got hit, but she was the only one who survived.

Jesus.

I lean back, my hand tightening on the mouse.

I’m still staring at the screen, but I’m not really seeing it anymore.

Her behavior makes sense now, in a messed-up, painful kind of way. The distance she’s been putting between us, the sharp edges that weren’t there before. It’s not just about me or the marriage or even Sean O’Keefe. She’s scared of letting someone in and of loving them, only to end up losing them.

This insight into Riley’s past shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does. At least this helps me understand what could be going on inside her head.

I’m not good with uncertainty, and this gives me something to work with. But until I actually talk to Riley, this is all just guesswork, and that’s the part I keep avoiding.

I’m not built for vulnerability. Riley throws me off balance in ways no one else ever has.

But I’m not going to figure her out from behind a locked door, and I’m sure as hell not going to figure it out through background checks.

I need to talk to her, and I mean really talk to her if I have any chance of rebuilding things between us. Because I’m starting to realize that whatever the hell is happening between us, it’s not just pretend anymore.

And maybe it never was.

Chapter Twenty-Four

RILEY

I never thought a house could be intimidating, but the Sullivan mansion is exactly that. Its stone façade looms over me like some kind of fairy tale castle, except in this story the princes wear designer suits and carry guns.

I shift from one foot to the other, trying not to lose my nerve as I press the doorbell.

“Don’t be awkward,” I mutter to myself just as the door flies open.

A woman wearing a crisp navy uniform with dark hair scraped back into a braid stands before me, and she offers me a warm smile. “You must be Riley.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’m Elena.” She stands aside to let me in. “I’m the nanny, or rather, soon-to-be nanny.”

“Oh, right. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” I step over the threshold and quickly glance around the foyer.

It’s enormous, with a double-height ceiling overhead, and the two huge windows on either side of the front door flood the space with soft daylight. A sweeping staircase curls up to the left, and the marble floors are so clean I feel guilty stepping on them in my tennis shoes. At the center of the room sits an oversized table topped with a huge vase of white lilies and pale pink roses. It should be over-the-top, but somehow it isn’t.