Zane turns toward them from where he’s been pacing alongside Tessa. Linda and Garrison both turn toward him, too.
“We’re running security cameras to see if we can get a hit on any of them. I’ve also contacted Jack Weathers. He should be here soon.” Leopold takes a seat beside Anastasia. “Can I ask you what’s in that box now?”
She closes her eyes, and a single tear slips free. Then, she slides it over toward him. Weston and the others move in close, too, and Leopold opens the box.
A single, slightly wilted purple flower petal is lying on top of a piece of fabric that looks like it was torn from a shirt.
“No,” Weston growls and turns away, his hands clenching into fists. “There’s no way.”
“How?” Linda asks.
Zane doesn’t utter a single word, but his gaze has turned murderous. Tessa touches his arm, but the contact does nothing to stifle his anger.
“Care to fill the rest of us in?” Ryker asks.
Weston turns and leaves the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Anastasia winces and closes her eyes, more tears rolling down her cheeks.
“How could he have known, Anastasia? Did you tell anyone?” Leopold asks.
She shakes her head.
I try to put the pieces together, but all I see is a flower petal while the others are behaving as though she just opened a major can of worms.
Leopold’s phone rings, so he pulls it from his pocket. “I’ll be right back.” He steps from the apartment.
“Let’s give them a minute,” Tessa says as she pulls Zane toward the door. Linda hovers behind her daughter a moment, then presses a kiss to the top of her head before following her son out of the room.
Ryker and Garrison both go, too, shutting the door gently behind them.
I slide out of my seat and onto my knees right in front of her.
Desperate to use both hands, I shrug out of the sling, ignoring the ache in my shoulder, and carefully grip both of her hands with mine. “Anastasia.”
She takes a deep breath and looks over at me. “I never told you because I didn’t want to relive it.”
“Told me what, baby?” Releasing one of her hands, I reach up and brush her hair behind her ear.
“When I was seventeen—” She takes a deep breath. “My best friend called and woke me up. She’d snuck out and gone to a party, and wasn’t feeling right.” Every word is a struggle, every letter packed full of pain. “I didn’t want her to get into trouble, so I snuck out to get her.” She closes her eyes tightly, and her bottom lip quivers.
“Anyone would have done that.”
“You don’t understand.” She shakes her head. “What do you know about Weston’s sister?”
“Not much.” I know that she was killed, but aside from that, I don’t even know her name. “He doesn’t talk about her much.”
“She was my best friend.” A tear slips down her cheek. “The night she died, she wasn’t alone.”
Realization hits me with the force of a freight train, and I have to sit back up on the seat to remain steady.
“She was in and out of it as I was driving her home. I figured someone had slipped her something, so I was taking her to the hospital.” She sucks in a ragged breath. “Headlights blinded me as they came up fast. I tried to avoid them, but the truck hit me, clipping the rear driver’s side.”
Headlights. Her freezing up outside my shop wasn’t just fear for the moment. It was a trauma response.
My chest aches as the horrible vision plays out in front of me in real-time.
“We were trapped in the car, but the person who hit us stopped, too. Violet was unconscious, her face bloodied.”
