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I’d had a great relationship with my dad, but when it came to . . .
Chills painted my skin in a thick coat as I put together issues I’d never realized I’d had with my mother. At forty-five, was it all just clicking now?
I brushed away the thoughts. There’d be time for me to psychoanalyze my past relationships later. Like when I didn’t need to fully focus on the mission. I was having enough trouble with the present distractions in my life.
“I’m not good. All the worrying,” I said under my breath, remembering Oliver’s questions.
“Was that sarcasm?” Oliver grinned. “But you really aren’t good, huh?” His smile vanished, replaced with a serious look I rarely saw him sport. “Shit, I’m sorry.” He held up his palm. “How can I help?”
“Just make sure Diana gets to sleep within a few hours and that Dallas is with her. Tell her I won’t be joining her.” An unpleasant image popped into my head, and I added, “No need to personally tuck her into bed.”
“I’m not even going to respond to that,” he muttered, his words barely cutting through my thoughts, which were all centered around Diana.
If she needed space, and I couldn’t hold her in my arms tonight, I had every intention of locking myself in this office, trying to ignore the tick-tock sound from the wall clock while I worked on finding who was behind this, staying awake until my eyes bled if it took that long.
I glanced at that clock now. Tick. Fucking. Tock. I’d always loved time and clocks, and now I was on the verge of taking one from the wall and sending it to join my wedding band.
“You, uh, sure you don’t want help with something?” Oliver stood, concern etched between his brows. The man knew what it was like to lose a loved one, he just hid his pain behind humor, and I hid mine in a much different way.
“I need to figure out who’s behind this. It has to be someone connected to Diana in a way I’ve missed,” I admitted. “Someone who truly knows her.” I thought back to the months of “checking in” on Diana, cataloging in my head every interaction she’d had and with whom during that time frame. “Not just knew her from the outside.” Like how I’d learned about her. “But someone who has an inside . . .” My words trailed off as a name came to mind. A name that’d fit. And they were tied to everyone, including Rebecca.
The truth had been staring me in the face the whole fucking time. We had most of the story right, we’d just been missing this one piece. But like hell would I bring this up to Diana, throw out these kinds of allegations, before I had more evidence.
“What is it?” Oliver asked as I reached for my phone, standing at the same time as I did.
My thoughts were racing. Memories triggered. Pulling and tugging at every corner of my mind. Peeling open to reveal the truth. “I have to talk to Diana’s father,” I rushed out. “Now.”
60
DIANA
I’d tossed. Turned. Cried. Then repeated the process, losing track of time as I’d tried to, so far, unsuccessfully fall asleep.
Dallas had been cuddled up next to me for a bit, offering me comfort, but eventually, he’d grown too exhausted to stay awake, and he was now curled up by my feet. As much as I loved having him there, it was Carter I needed. I hadn’t expected him to keep his distance for this long, but maybe he was waiting on me to let him know I was ready to talk? Patient with me.
Curious if the sun would be rising soon with how long I’d been up there, I rolled to my side and checked the time on my phone. Was it really almost five thirty in the morning? That left me less than two hours before I had to get back to work. I would consider giving up on sleep, but this was the only chance I had to grieve.
I hadn’t given myself a chance to mourn anyone’s loss while working earlier. Anytime I’d found myself drifting into the state of a breakdown, which would’ve been accompanied by an ugly cry, I’d pulled myself together. By some miracle, I’d done it. I’d maxed out on my ability to remain strong, though, and the guilt and pain was finally hitting hard. Floodgates had opened, and they didn’t seem to want to close.
Bahar, William, and Bonnie were gone. Pierce, too. But if he’d betrayed us, resulting in their deaths, then screw him. Screw him all the way to Hell where I hoped he was now.
Ignoring the tears falling again, I opened up my last text thread with Carter. We’d only exchanged pictures so far. My heart skipped into my throat as I took a chance he might also be awake, and texted him.
Me: If you’re still up like me, any chance I could ask you my three questions to help me fall asleep?
At the immediate sight of three dots bouncing that indicated he was typing, I nervously stared at the screen.
Carter: You still want to know about me?
Cue more tears. They fell onto my screen at the anguished tone I could hear even through his writing. Why would he ever think I wouldn’t?
Me: Of course I do.
He started typing again, but then the bubbles stopped. He was as unsure as I was about how to navigate our way through this.
The last thing I expected was for him to text me a song from YouTube. It opened to one I’d never heard before. “Beautiful Things” by Benson Boone.
I listened to every lyric. To the message Carter was expressing in the most amazing way—that he didn’t want to lose me. Well, that made two of us. I never wanted to lose him either.
