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“I can’t believe this. This can’t be real.” Mom lifted her phone, staring at it, her hand shaking. “I—I have to make some calls.” She started from the room with Jared following close behind her, leaving me there with William.
I picked up the remote and rewound the news to pause the screen on Carter just before he’d stepped into the SUV.
“You okay?” William asked, joining me.
“No.” Unable to rip my eyes from the TV, tears began to fall. “This is going to destroy him. He’s a good guy.”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s usually the husband,” he said casually, and I wanted to slap him for that. “You heard the reporter, he has eleven billion reasons to have done it.”
And you just made my answer to your proposal easy, you asshole. “Goodbye, William, and take your ring with you.”
9
CARTER
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
A sea of thank yous had fallen from my mouth all day, and I was drowning in the respects people were paying. I could barely breathe during the funeral, and now at the reception at my wife’s New York home, I was suffocating.
I hadn’t cried, though. Not once since I heard her scream on that call a week ago. Not even when I saw the police photos from the crime scene. Or when they had me ID her body in person.
Nothing. Not a single fucking tear. I’d been frozen. Numb. In disbelief and shock. Gutted with guilt that my last words to her before she died were of anger. I’d told her I hated her, and I wasn’t sure how to live with myself for that.
There had to be something wrong with me. How was I so broken that I couldn’t shed a tear despite the fact I was in agony. In hell, being burned alive.
“Thank you,” I said to the next person offering me his support. Pierce Quaid had helped Rebecca run The Barclay Group, and he was saying something about . . . well, fucking something to me.
I swallowed and nodded my acknowledgement to an elderly couple who came up to me next. Apparently, they’d had tea with my wife every third Sunday of every month for the last three years, and I had no clue about it. Just like I didn’t know ninety-nine percent of the people who’d offered me their condolences since she’d died.
Not died. Was savagely murdered. Security footage destroyed. No evidence left behind by the “home invaders” who’d tossed my house searching for something. It wasn’t for money and jewelry like the Feds believed.
No, she died because of me. Another reason guilt impaled me now. She was murdered because of my job. It had to be why.
The killer was still out there, and I was being told to sit on my hands and let the police and Feds do their jobs. Not fucking happening.
“Hey, come with me.” Following the sound of a familiar voice, I spotted Camila at my nine o’clock. She held my wrist as if I wasn’t capable of moving on my own and guided me from the crowded room to Rebecca’s office.
Keeping my back to the door, the desk caught my eye. The last time I’d stepped foot in this room was when my wife had told me she’d cheated, and I’d snapped. Gotten her off with my hand before walking out. And now . . .
“You looked like you needed a minute.” Camila went over to the bar cart and poured two glasses of scotch.
I watched as the only family I had left quietly came back my way, her understated black dress and dark hair pinned into a tight bun muting her personality and helping her blend into the background. Up until recently, she spent most of her life in South America. Her accent was still discernible, and whenever she talked, she always reminded me of my father. I missed his voice. I missed him. Missed my mom, too. And now I missed . . . I missed my wife.
“Here.” She offered me the glass, and I stared down at the gold-hued liquid, trying to pull myself together. “I didn’t know this would happen. I’m so sorry.”
“What are you talking about?” The tears falling down her cheeks belonged on my face.
“I . . .” She gulped back her drink. “Never mind. Just ignore me.”
I normally would’ve pressed for more, but I didn’t have the energy. “I have to find who did this. The CIA wants me to stand down, but I refuse to believe this was a home invasion.” This was the only conversation I could have right now. I needed answers. I needed vengeance. “This never should have happened to her. This is my fault. Somehow it has to be.”
She lowered her drink to her side and reached for my shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Together, I promise.” Meeting my eyes, she added, “Where are your old teammates? I thought they’d be here for you.”
“Griffin and the rest of the Unit are in the middle of something somewhere, and the Army wouldn’t let them leave. This is Griffin’s last tour; he’s getting out. He’s going to come here as soon as he can and help me.”
She stared at me with those big, worried eyes of hers. “Help you find the killer?”
“Or killers.” I swallowed. “If the CIA tries to stop me, then fuck ’em. I’ll go off on my own.” And I meant that. No one was stopping me. Absolutely no one could prevent me from doing what I had to do to find who was responsible for hurting my wife.
