Wish - Page 51

My mind whirls. Holy crap. “That’s why you do all this. It stops the pain.”

“Something like that.”

Wow. I’m not a psychologist or doctor, but there has to be a medical reason—some past trauma or incident. I have to wonder if this is tied to the lake and his “death.” Some people have near-death experiences, and it changes everything for them.

Rebecca did say he wanted Mason McMillan to stay dead. This might be how he’s doing it, by becoming the exact opposite person: generous, kind, and relentlessly selfless.

“Do the headaches get worse when you do something nice for yourself?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Yep. There ya go. A piece of the picture slides into place, and my heart sinks. He’s a walking, talking guilt complex.

Jesus. Before, I felt inspired by his generosity. It was his passion, his calling. But now, knowing he’s in pain all the time, this is no way to live. Like he’s being punished for his past life. Or punishing himself.

“Do you really not remember Mason McMillan?” I ask.

He frowns. “Never heard of him. Why?”

Rebecca said that he while he might not fully remember, he does know about the man he used to be. If that’s true, then Marus doesn’t want to discuss it. I should be upset given his expectation about being honest; however, I also have to rely on my gut and what it says. He’s not out to hurt me or anyone. Quite the opposite. Point is, if Marus is evading the truth, I have to believe it’s for a damned good reason—like he really wants Mason to stay dead. On the other hand, he’s in pain and can’t keep running from this forever. At some point, he needs to face his past and just move on. I wish I knew what to do.

“Never mind.” I cross my legs under the table, wringing my napkin in my lap. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“I didn’t,” he replies.

“But you run a business and know so much about—”

“Self-taught.”

The tension in the air thickens. He knows I’m quizzing him for a reason, and he doesn’t like it. It makes me believe that Mason is in there, whether Marus’s amnesia is real or not.

“How about your parents? Where do they live?” I ask.

“I have no family. I grew up in an orphanage and was lucky enough to meet some very generous people who helped me get started.”

I wonder if he’s talking about his real parents. “Do you keep in touch with them?”

“No.”

“How did you meet the woman at the thrift store?”

“How do you know about her?” he asks.

“I followed you, remember?”

“The owner of the thrift store was the first person I helped. Her sister died, and she was trying to get a charity started in her name. Her family has money, but aren’t the type to help anyone except themselves. I gave her the money to open her first store—the one you went to. Since then she’s opened five more.” He pauses. “She’s instrumental in my work.”

“So Rose is your partner?” I ask.

“Rose was her sister. Amanda Rose Bryson.”

I want to react. I want to freak the hell out. But I don’t. Amanda Rose Bryson was Mason McMillan’s fiancée. The one who fell through the ice and died in the lake.

A shiver runs through me. He’s been helping his dead fiancée’s sister. And obviously she knows about him, so she must’ve forgiven him. In fact, she looks out for Marus like a big sister. She’s loyal to him, too. It’s interesting, isn’t it? She found it in her heart to forgive him for Amanda’s death, which is pretty huge, while I sense Rebecca hasn’t forgiven anything. She only cares about Mason staying dead. It makes me question everything Rebecca said and if Mason really was as bad as she claims.

“What’s the meaning of all these questions, Ginnie?” Marus asks.

“I’m trying to get to know you.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m cold. The dress doesn’t cover much.”

“My apologies. I should have got a coat for you before we left.” Marus stands, removes his jacket, and wraps it around my shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He takes his seat, and the busboy comes around to fill our glasses with water. Marus asks for flat. So do I.

“Seems neither of us likes the idea of wasting money on useless fizz,” I say.

“This conversation is proof.”

No one has spelled it out, but we both know this isn’t just a conversation. It’s truth or die for us.

“Better?” he asks.

I hug the jacket around me. It smells like him, sweet, spicy, complex. I never want to take it off. “Yeah. Thanks. So this partner of yours—”

“Jules.”

“Jules,” I repeat, “she helps you find people to help?”

“The bottles are planted in her stores. Whoever I help is completely random.”

“So how do you know if the person is worthy? What if they’re some horrible criminal or a murderer or a greedy bastard who doesn’t care?”

Tags: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Romance
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