“You were so relieved.” I look away, forcing back any signs of hurt. “I didn’t want to take that away from you.”
Beau coughs over a laugh, and I flick my eyes to Goldie who’s standing quietly by the elevator. She shakes her head at me. It’s understandable. She sees the hidden hope. I’m a fucking joke. Do I honestly think there’s anything that can save me? No. But without hope that there’s something that can save Beau, what’s the fucking point in me being here?
I drag my eyes back to the woman who has taken everything I thought I understood and blew it apart. I’m not the man I was when she walked into my apartment only a few weeks ago. Unfeeling. Unrepentant. Unseen. Problem is, I’m not sure who I’ve become in that short time. Or if I can keep him alive.
Beau looks spaced out. It’s not sunk in yet. I can relate. I’ve thought of nothing since I saw two little lines. “Beau?” I say, moving forward.
Her hand comes up, halting me. “Don’t touch me,” she orders, her chest pulsing. “Just do not touch me.”
“We need to talk about this.”
The elevator doors open, and Goldie enters it silently, leaving us alone. She gives me another shake of her head before I lose sight of her.
Beau moves across to the kitchen and opens the fridge. She reaches for a bottle of beer, and I feel every muscle in me tense, ready to go over and fight her for it. But she diverts her reaching hand to a water before I’m forced to intervene, swigging half the bottle down in one long gulp. Then she turns and paces to the stairs, taking them two at a time, fast and determined. I grab my phone and follow her, checking the cameras as I do. There’s a message from Goldie.
I’ve never in my life known such a stupid fucking man.
“Me neither,” I say to myself, calling her. “Are you okay?” I ask when she answers.
“I’m fine. For fuck’s sake. I don’t even know what to say to you.”
Nothing. Say nothing about that. “Do we know how they got in yet?”
“The sensor on the roof failed. Or was cut.”
“Fix it. Add more backups.” I hang up and realign my focus, finding Beau in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat rifling through the bin. She pulls out the stick. Looks at it. Then she hiccups over a sob, dropping it to the tile and burying her face in her palm. My heart twists in my chest as I stand on the threshold, wanting to go to her but knowing I’m walking on dangerous ground. We still haven’t cleared up the matter that had her pointing a fucking 9mm at me. I don’t know who told her I was there, or where the fuck this footage has come from. I can’t bear watching her fall apart like this. I should be on my knees before her, holding her, telling her it’s all going to be okay.
But . . . is it?
Can it be okay?
She snivels and brushes at her wet cheeks angrily, finding me by the door. “I don’t want a baby.”
“You don’t have a choice,” I say without thinking, my instinct taking over.
She glares at me, steely faced. “Don’t I?”
I recoil, unable to wipe the disgust away. Is she suggesting . . .? “I’ve killed many men, Beau. I’ve tortured them and felt not a shred of remorse. You expect me to let you kill my flesh and blood?” My protectiveness surprises me. I’ve not had a moment to digest what’s happening. Beau even less time. But something deep and unyielding will not tolerate nor entertain what she is suggesting. This is a life she’s talking about. A life we made together. Not a tarnished, ugly, blood-bathed existence. It’s a fucking child. I slump against the doorframe and slide down to my arse, my legs hollow and weak, my heart hurting.
She looks away and shame engulfs every inch of her. It’s a mild consolation. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“And yet it has. So we fucking deal with it.”
“How are you being so stable?” she asks, looking at me for an answer. “This is the worst thing that could have happened.”
Stable? I’m far from stable. I’ve got someone trying to turn Beau against me, she’s pregnant with my fucking child, The Bear has sent two killers into my home, and she thinks I murdered her mother. Stable? I should be in a straitjacket. But to keep my life—Beau’s life, our fucking baby’s life, I need to keep my head. “The worst thing that could happen is you believing I killed your mother.”
Her head snaps up. “I saw you on the footage.”
“What footage? Who sent you this footage?”
“Nath sent it. And you’re there. Watching. Making sure you got the job done.” She frowns. “But Nath’s never met you. So how did he know it was you in the footage?” Her hand goes to her head, like she can’t cope with the information overload.
Nath. Her friend. That fucker is as dirty as they come. “He knew what I looked like because he saw me at your mum’s grave.” I can feel my nostrils flaring, the rage threatening. “He was following you.” Her face is a picture of disbelief. Jesus, she has to believe me. “Show me the footage.”
“I dropped my cell in your bedroom.”
I drag myself up and go find it, returning quickly and handing it over. Her lips straight, she taps her screen and thrusts it in my face, and I watch the footage while Beau watches me. Jaz’s car. Beau getting out. Me in another shot.
It cuts before the end. It’s condemning. It’s exactly how Nathan Butler wants it to be.
Manipulated.
“Yes, I was there the night your mum died, Beau. But I was trying to stop it.” I turn away from her, giving her my back, which feels like it could be burning all over again. “This didn’t happen in the explosion that killed my family. I wasn’t in the house, I was at the back of the grounds playing golf with Otto. This happened the night your mum died. This happened when I pulled you away from the car. This fucking happened when I tried to get your mother out.” I swallow and clench my eyes closed. The silence behind me is unbearable. The feel of her eyes, new eyes, taking in the damage on my back is as painful as the night I sustained the burns. “Your mother didn’t deserve to die, so I tried to save her.”
I escape her scrutiny, walking away, heading for my office. The drinks cabinet calls, and I make fast work of unscrewing the cap off a bottle of Black Label and swigging a good dose. The bottle hitting the cabinet masks my gasp. The burn on my back masks the burn in my throat. What the fuck is this mess? And the footage? The Bear would’ve seen it two years ago. Seen me. Wondered who the fuck I was. He wouldn’t have connected the man in the footage to The Enigma, because why the fuck would the man killing off his army want to save an FBI agent? But now? Now he’s connected the dots. Now he knows the man who tried to save Jaz Hayley is the man killing his men. I can only imagine the mindfuck that’s got him in. I’m mildly satisfied. For the most part, I’m frustrated. He has my face, thanks to that footage and the photographs from the factory. One of my names, thanks to Butler. My location, thanks to my stupidity. It’s a fuck load more than I have on him.
My fingers claw around the bottle, my breathing shallow and erratic. “Fuck.” I swing around and hurl the bottle at the wall, taking out one of the screens. Ironically, it’s the screen where The Bear’s face should be. Is it a sign? A sign that I’ll never find him? Never kill him? Never get the justice I need?