“What did you do to … become a felon?” My last word is practically squeaked out.

“Aiding and abetting.”

“Aiding and abetting for what?”

“Money laundering.”

I’m quiet, digesting his words.

It all reminds me too much of Quinton.

Law breaking.

Secrets.

“You’re mad,” he says, his voice soft. “I get it. That’s why I tried to keep my distance.”

I inhale a steeling breath before answering, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Being a felon isn’t something I go around bragging about.”

“We’ve spent enough time together for you to tell me.”

A blend of irritation yet also understanding seeps through me. I get him keeping it from me when we were friends, but I opened up to him, so he should’ve done the same with me. I told him about my arrest and Quinton. That was a big step for me.

“That’s why I wanted to start tonight by talking to you about this. I don’t want any secrets between us, and from your reaction, I can see it’s a big deal for you. I’m a felon. I was in prison. And if you’re not comfortable with that, I understand.”

“Wow.” I slump down on the bed next to him and blow out a downward breath. “Prison.”

“Prison,” he repeats, mirroring my breath. “If it makes you feel any better, I technically didn’t commit the crime.”

I imagine most people would snort and roll their eyes at his declaration, his plea of innocence, but knowing the situation I was in, it’s believable. I once wanted to be heard, said the words that I didn’t commit the crime, and was mocked and ignored. I’d never do that before hearing someone out.

I swallow before speaking, “Okay.”

He turns to face me, our eyes locking, and his face is pained. “I know it’s stereotypical for criminals to say that, but hear me out.” He shakes out his hands. “My crime was not turning my father in for corruption. I was the VP of the company he was laundering money through, and I kept my mouth shut, so I was brought down with him.” He drapes his hand over mine. “You’re the first person I’ve really talked about this with.”

I battle with my internal emotions.

Back and forth.

Right and wrong.

Good guy or bad guy.

I’m not sure how much silence passes before he says, “Do you want me to go?”

Pulling away, he levels his palm on the bed to pull himself up, but I stop him.

“No, please don’t,” I whisper.

Prison was Lincoln’s past, not his future.

He’s done nothing to convince me otherwise. If he were doing shady shit, there’d be too many inconsistencies, people would be talking at the bar, and no way would Maliki and Sierra let me be around him.

Unlike Quinton, Lincoln is admitting to his wrongdoings.