Page 130 of Dead Pretty

Or maybe I open the damn door because I’m in love with him. And people do blind, irresponsible shit when they’re in love. Even things that could get them killed.

Jack is on his feet. Staring at me.

I can’t even imagine what I look like right now.

He looks wrung out. His hair is messed up from running his hands through it, I assume.

But still beautiful.

Always beautiful.

I hate that.

I hate him.

And I hate even more that I don’t hate him, not really.

“I’m sorry—” he starts in a soft voice.

“Don’t,” I cut him off, my voice arctic. “I have questions. I want you to answer them.”

“Anything,” he tells me, the look on his face earnest. Not that I can trust any way Jack looks anymore.

“And I want the truth,” I add. “All of it.”

“Everything I have told you from the moment I met you has been the truth. Except for Tobias. Keeping who he is to me, that is the only thing I have ever held back from you.”

I wrap my arms around myself, needing to stop my heart from reaching out to him. My idiot, traitorous heart.

“And your ex-girlfriend.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. And it’s a damn stupid thing to say at such a serious time as this.

Jack frowns. “What ex-girlfriend?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What ex-girlfriend, Audrey?” His voice is firmer.

I shift on my feet. “The friend in Australia. You were weird every time you mentioned him, so I figured it was an ex.” An important ex-girlfriend.

His expression shifts to guilt again. I feel like I’m going to get used to seeing this expression. “I was talking about Toby. He was the one who sent my manuscript off. When I said it, I knew I had dug myself into a hole, so I panicked and just said it was an old friend.”

I think back to that moment in the restaurant, and it all makes sense.

There I was, feeling this pathetic jealousy, thinking it was an ex-girlfriend, and he was actually talking about his brother. The man who is in prison for stalking, kidnapping, and physically assaulting me. Oh, and also murdering multiple women.

I feel sick again.

I turn from him and walk into the kitchen. I get a bottle of water from the fridge and gulp some down. I don’t bother to offer him a drink.

I’m not exactly feeling hospitable at the moment.

I look over at him. He’s still standing in the open doorway.

“You can come in.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can’t exactly have this conversation with the door open for the neighbors to hear. I’m sure they have heard enough already.”