The Suspect

chapter 32

We're moving.

As soon as the doors shut, not even two minutes have passed before we're on the move. I hear the chains outside rattle, and the metal that I stand on clangs as I feel myself being shifted. My hands reach out to find stability but unfortunately, I have nothing to hold on to. I move back and once my back touches one wall of the container, I slide down and mimic Tatum's position.

Tatum seems a little too relaxed. There's a very small, barely evident smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His shoulders are rolled back and shrugged, as his hands play with the hilt of my knife he somehow stole off me. Now all of that together gets me thinking. My mind goes back to the territory I once deep-buried long ago.

"Did..." my voice dies out so I straighten my spine and clear my throat, "Did you have something to do with this?"

His head jerks up and he flinches. Hard. His mouth is now in a frown, and creases form on his forehead.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" A deep but bitter chuckle slips out and he shakes his head like he's in a state of utter disbelief, "After....after everything I told you, every little thing from the darkest, worst fucking parts of my life—you're still questioning my trust?"

He seems visibly hurt, but defensive. I can feel it too. In his words, the gritting of his teeth, the snapping of his jaw.

"A little fucking food for your thought, the words that left my mouth that night at the hotel were the first time I uttered them. I've never—I wouldn't fuck up the one chance to find someone that gives even little of a shit about me."

His voice is raw, just like his feelings. My breath hitches as his eyes meet mine, and I struggle to form words.

"I'm so—"

"Save it," he snaps and looks away from me, "Just fucking save it."

I take a deep breath and drop my head slightly. I fucked up, I have to own up to it rather than making it about myself. I don't deserve to cry, if anything the tears would be for him; but I don't let them fall either. Those tears would hold pity. Sympathy. The sympathy that isn't mine to feel nor give.

"Why?"

His words are sharp and concise. I snap my eyes to him and watch his Adam's apple slowly bob as he gulps.

"Just why do you keep doubting me? No lies, no half-assing your answer. I just want to know the truth. After everything, just fucking why?"

Why?

I hate that word. Makes it seem like everything needs to have a reason to be done. I didn't question his trust for no reason, no. Maybe he was just there to take the blame. There to question. A momentary lapse in judgment when I wasn't thinking right.

"I-I don't know why I'm sorry."

So I give him the truth. I know it was wrong, I was being careless and fucking stupid. I'll admit that.

"You don't know?" he straightens and rubs his hands across his thigh, "So you're telling me that just slipped out of your mouth for no reason. It's not like I told you we were walking into a trap, were we? Fucking admit it. You were being careless, trying to be the fucking hero in every damn situation. Well, new flash, Agent, you're not."

"Don't you think I fucking know it?!" I blurt out so loud it echoes throughout the container, "I knew we were walking into a trap, okay. God, I just thought it would get Miller off our dicks for a while."

"You're in dire need of a serious reality check," he yells to balance my loud voice and I almost shudder at his amplitude, "You don't have to be the knight in shining fucking armor every time there's a problem. You need help. You need me. Why are you so afraid, Agent? What are you so afraid of?"