It makes me sick just thinking about it, and my worry for Jenn’s wellbeing intensifies. If Nora was capable of something so heinous against the man she supposedly loved, I’ve no doubt she’s capable of inflicting unimaginable pain onto her drug-addict sister.
Nora has to go, and that needed to happen yesterday.
Releasing a deep breath, I fall back against Saint’s bed and stare up at the ceiling. His scent tickles my nose and I curl myself around his pillows, shudders coursing through me.
It’s all so disgusting what lengths these people will go to for money. I can’t imagine living life with such a shallow outlook.
Does Saint think that way?
I bite my lip and remember what Mr. Angelle had said to me.
Everybody has their price, and everybody has their limits.
I don’t want that to be Saint.
I don’t want to love someone like those people, so Saint can’t be that way.
I sit up on the bed, dragging my fingers through my hair. My knees begin to jog as I grow antsy. He’s been gone awhile at this point, and I don’t know how much longer I can stay cooped up in this place. I want to be here when he gets back, but I also feel obligated to do something to try and clean up this colossal mess we’ve found ourselves in.
An idea suddenly strikes me. Digging out my phone, I pull up my contact list and find Dylan. That sonofabitch has some explaining to do. I want to know exactly what Mr. Angelle said to him—how much Jameson gave him. It probably wouldn’t have taken much to get Dylan to throw me under the bus, but I’m guessing it was a hefty payout if Mr. Angelle got him to agree to go all the way back to Georgia.
I hit the call button, press the phone to my ear, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try again.
Still no answer.
“Motherfucker,” I growl out loud, attempting to call him for a third time. Maybe if he sees me being persistent, he’ll answer.
Or maybe I’m just full of shit because I get his voicemail once again.
Gritting my teeth in frustration, I tell myself he’s just screening my call, but something prickles the back of my mind. I only have Mr. Angelle’s word that Dylan went back to Georgia.
And as it stands, his word is nothing.
The image of Dylan beaten and bloody pops into my head, and bile rises in my throat, but I push it down. Dylan’s probably still on the plane or something. He called me last night, after all. He’s okay. He’s just avoiding me.
Right?
No matter how much I try to rationalize it, though, I can’t shake that all too familiar sensation of dread. I have to know for sure that he’s all right before I can focus on anything else. He’s not answering his cell, but I have another number where I could probably find out if he’s alive and well yet or not.
If the person on the other end bothers to tell me, that is.
I stare down at my phone, too afraid to find the number, but what choice do I have? If Dylan’s hurt, I need to know.
Despite everything, I’d never want him to be hurt.
Taking a deep breath, I hit the call button. My heart pounds in my ears at the phone rings, and a part of me hopes nobody answers.
I’m not so lucky a second time, however.
“Hello?” a soft voice comes through the speaker, wrapping around me in a nostalgic chokehold.
“Mrs. Porter, it’s Mallory. Mallory Ellis.” My tone is soft and unsure, and sure enough, as soon as I say my name, I swear I feel a blast of cold air rush through the phone.
“Mallory. I never expected to hear from you again.”
I flinch, forcing my lips to keep moving. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if…”
“If what?” she snaps.
Fuck, I feel like such a child talking to her. That’s really all I am though, isn’t it? A stupid child who stole her child away from her.
“If Dylan made it back to Georgia okay,” I murmur.
There’s a long, stiff pause before she sucks in a deep breath. “Why would you be so concerned about Dylan?”
There’s suspicion in her voice, and it makes me think she’s at least somewhat aware of what happened between Dylan and me. He probably confessed to our affair after James died, just to prepare her for the worst. Shit. That just makes this conversation that much more unbearable.
“I know he left Angelview to go back home for a while,” I say, scrambling to come up with some reason as to why I give a shit about her son without giving away the fact that I’m terrified for his life. “It was rather sudden, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay. It was important to me because of … James.”
I dig my free hand into Saint’s bedspreads to keep from slapping myself in the forehead the seconds James’s name leaves my lips.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies after a beat. “And even if I did know where he was, or how he was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
The click indicating the end of the phone call sounds before I can scramble to come up with a response. I lower the phone and shake my head in frustration and defeat.
I still have no idea where Dylan is, and now I just reminded his mother that I exist and she should actively hate me.
Choking on a harsh breath, I glance down at my phone and wonder what in the hell I should do now.
And as I’m staring at the phone, something strange catches my eye on the screen.
Up in the left-hand corner is the icon telling me a video has been successfully processed. When did I take a video? I definitely don’t remember doing that in the last few hours.
Curious, I open my gallery and click on the footage. My heart slams into the walls of my chest the moment I realize that it’s my conversation with Jameson Angelle. The clip is about five minutes long, and in it, he threatens me and confesses to killing my father.
This is major. This is evidence. Hard evidence of a murder and the fact that Mr. Angelle was behind it, and he had done it to himself when he took my phone from me.
What do I do with this? Take it to the police? And say what? That one of the richest men in the country murdered his best friend and business partner because he wanted the man’s wife and money for himself? That all sounds like it belongs in a soap opera, not a police report.
I wonder if Mr. Angelle has friends in the police department? He has to have some. A guy can’t be that rich and powerful without greasing a few palms along the way.
I save the video, then back it up just to be safe.
Just as I’m exiting out of the video, the door to the room bursts open and Saint strolls inside.
I jump from the bed and rush to him.
“Saint—” My voice trails off when I see that his face is messed up and he’s covered in blood. “Oh, my God! What happened to you?”
I grab his arm and practically drag him to the bed, which I force him to sit on. With gentle fingers, I begin inspecting his face. There’s some bruising already forming on one cheek and swelling around the eyes. I don’t want to look down at the blood spattered all over his shirt and pants. One thing at a time.
Just one goddamn thing at a time.
“You went to your dad,” I say as I carefully poke around a lump on the top of his head. “And it went off the rails?”
“Pretty much the moment I saw him,” he admits. He keeps talking as I head into the bathroom for some supplies to clean him up with, but I’m still listening intently when he continues, “I found him in the visitor parking lot. I meant to talk to him and ask him about everything he told you, but the second my eyes landed on him, I just saw red. I wanted to hurt him, badly, for everything he’s done to hurt you.”