The man who regretted it at the end.
Cruz leaves. I let out a breath.
“Melt it down,” I tell Knox.
“Fuck,” he says, but he doesn’t argue. He’s the youngest now that Grayson’s detained, so I make him do the shit work. He still makes a face while he picks up the glass and takes it out of the room.
“Good work,” says a deep voice from the corner. Calder. The saint has decided to speak today. His bright blond hair is long and straight; he’s dressed head-to-toe in black, kind of like a priest. If priests were fucking terrifying.
“Thanks.”
“Messy,” he adds. “Did anyone see?”
I bristle at the implication that I would be so sloppy, that I would let someone witness me doing that—even if it’s more or less what happened.
And I hate that she saw me like that. Beating on him in the parking lot. She saw me feral and angry and broken.
“No one,” I answer before leaving the room.
I want to be alone now, on the roof of the Bradford, looking out at the city, but Nate follows me.
Out of all the guys, he’s the only one who lives a regular life. The only one with regular morals. He doesn’t think killing is okay, even for someone as monstrous as Madsen.
Which makes it a surprise when he says, “You did a good thing.”
I look sideways at him, at his hard profile set against a dying sun. He’s wearing a worn work shirt and jeans. Work boots that are coated in mud. He spends his days healing sick animals in his vet practice outside the city. “That’s something, coming from you.”
“Cruz needed to see that ring. You could tell, looking at his expression. Even though he acts tough. I know how much it costs you, keeping those promises.”
A bark of a laugh comes out of me. “Doesn’t cost me a damn thing.”
“No?” he asks, damnably soft. “You don’t dream about the blood, then.”
I growl because he’s right. “Save the doctoring for the animals.”
“You don’t need my help. You don’t need anything, right? I get it. Except the truth is, you’re made of the same flesh and blood as all of us. You need help, too.”
I wave my hand, dismissing his words. My bones turned to stone over a decade ago. My blood to dark sludge. I’m like the abandoned hotel we stand on top of. Some of the pieces are still here, but most of me is gone. I only have one purpose now, and that’s making sure all the guys get their revenge.
“Who is going to fight for you?” Nate asks softly.
I don’t turn around as he leaves me on the roof. Alone, the way I like it. The way I need it to be.
Chapter 6
Brooke
I’m curled up on the living room couch. The blanket on my lap is cashmere, soft as a cloud, but I don’t want it. I could push it off, but my mom would just tuck it around me again. I don’t really have the heart to tell her I don’t like it. Not when she’s trying so hard to take care of me. Not when this is the only way she knows how.
“Are you thirsty?” she asks me for the fifth time this morning.
I’m not, but I give in and tell her, “A glass of water might help.”
Nothing is going to help, but the way her eyes light up for half a second makes it worth the lie. I know she’s doing the best she can for me. She’s canceled her hair appointment, her bridge club, her charity meetings. I wonder what she’s told them, but not enough to ask. I don’t want to find out that I’ve suddenly come down with the flu.
I stare out the living room window, wishing I’d asked for something that would take longer. A glass of orange juice, but freshly squeezed. I don’t want a drink—I want space. That’s strange considering I would have loved this kind of attention a day ago.
A lot has changed in a day.
She’s on her way back with a glass of water when the doorbell chimes.
Worry flashes across her face, and then she changes direction and goes to the foyer. I listen, mostly disinterested, while she opens the door. I’m expecting some hushed whispers and a thinly veiled reference to the housekeeper having a day off. A few of her society friends have already dropped by, their concern masking blatant curiosity.
I went missing from my own sweet-sixteen party. It’s gone from blood in the water to floating limbs.
Instead she’s coming back in, and there’s someone behind her. Two someones.
Men. Not friends. They look official.
My heart beats faster. Suddenly I’m desperate for that glass of water she’s still holding. In fact I wish I’d taken one of the sleeping pills the hospital sent me home with, so I could avoid this altogether.
One of them nods in greeting, his dark eyes somber. The lines on his face tell me he’s normally expressive, even though I can’t read a thing in his expression now. “Ms. Carson. I’m Detective Emilio Rivera.”
The other detective dips his head and introduces himself too.
“Hi,” I mumble, not quite able to meet his eyes. I already talked to cops at the hospital. They were uniformed officers with uniform questions to match. Something about this man’s presence tells me he won’t be as easy to fool.
It’s crazy, the guilt and fear I feel. Like I did something wrong when I was the one held at gunpoint. He did this to me, by making me keep quiet.
My mom sends me a worried smile. “Are you up for questions? They said it wouldn’t take long.”
“It’s fine,” I say because I’d rather get it over with.
She offers the detectives something to drink, which they refuse. Then she flashes us all a nervous smile and escapes from the room—taking the glass of water with her. I lick my lips.
Suddenly my mouth is completely dry.
The detectives sit down on the plush chairs across from me. The one named Emilio Rivera leans forward, clearly the man in charge. It’s the way he holds himself, the way he speaks first. The way his eyes seem to take in every square inch of me, like I’m a puzzle he’s going to solve. I barely even register the other man, because this one seems to take up all the oxygen.
“Ms. Carson, we’re very sorry to hear about your ordeal,” Detective Rivera says. “I know you must be tired, but we’re in charge of the investigation. It’s important that we speak with you.”
Unease clenches inside me. “I already talked with cops. Told them what I remember.”
His expression doesn’t reveal much, but I get the sense that he’s looking at me. Looking into me, like he knows I kept some stuff back. “It helps to hear things in your own words,” he says. “And sometimes you can remember things later that were fuzzy at first.”
“I don’t,” I say, too quickly.
His eyes narrow slightly. Damn it.
I’m messing this up because it feels wrong to lie to the cops. It feels wrong to lie to my parents. I’ve been raised with a lot of luxuries, especially before the construction business started to tank. But I was also raised pretty strict. Brought up to be obedient, to do and say the right thing.
Lying makes me feel like an accomplice to a crime. An accomplice to my own abduction—and to the murder of that man, Madsen. I don’t even know the name of the man who took me, who carried me into the river, but I feel linked to him now. Partners in crime, almost. I hate it, but I can’t tell on him.