Page 104 of My Beautiful Sin

“No,” I admit, then tell him what Lamar told me.

“Just because Mulroy was involved in porn doesn’t mean that Peter was. That doesn’t sound like the man I knew.”

“Me either.” But what I don’t say is that working in organized crime and the drug trade wasn’t the Peter I thought I knew either. I’ve always known that everyone has secrets, but coming back to Laguna Cortez, that lesson has truly hit home.

Devlin has blueberry scone mix in his cabinets, and I watch as he stirs the batter. It’s barely eight o’clock, but he’d slipped out of bed just after six. I’d felt the loss of his warmth immediately, and once I realized he was up for the day, I couldn’t fall back asleep.

I’d pulled on one of his T-shirts, then gone in search of him. I heard him before I found him, and I spent a pleasant twenty minutes watching him beat the shit out of the punching bag on his back porch. He’d wrapped his hands, and I’m glad. I remember only too well the time I’d seen his fingers raw and red, along with the blood stains on the smooth, tan leather of that poor, beleaguered bag.

Last night, his knuckles had been red, but not raw and bleeding. He’d held back a bit with Walt, of course. Which is why the bastard isn’t dead.

“Better now?” I’d asked when he turned toward me, sweat dripping off his brow into his eyes. He wore only shorts, and his entire body glistened like an ancient god’s portrait spotlighted in a museum.

“Getting there,” he’d said, then took my hand. “Talking last night helped. Showering with you now will finish the job.”

“You have a one-track mind.”

“If the track is you, then yes,” he’d said.

Now, we’re showered and dressed for the day, and soon enough we’ll have scones together. Then he’ll leave for the foundation, and I’ll go home to check on Brandy and then dive back into my research about Peter, with reaching out to Cyrus Mulroy being the first order of business.

“Thirteen minutes,” Devlin says, sliding the baking tray into the oven. “What can we possibly do in thirteen minutes?”

He fakes a leer and I laugh. “Down, boy. I’m dressed and actually wearing make-up. And you, sir, would smudge it.”

“I can think of all sorts of ways to entertain ourselves that wouldn’t disturb your make-up.” He comes around the island and tugs me off the stool and into his arms. “Shall I demonstrate?”

I’m about to challenge him to do exactly that when we’re interrupted by the sharp chime of his doorbell.

He frowns, then pulls out his phone to check the camera. “Brandy,” he says, and my gut immediately tightens.

I hurry in that direction, Devlin right on my heels, then yank open the door the second he’s disarmed the system. “Are you okay?” I demand. “Did something else happen? Shit, I should have stayed with you.”

My words fall over each other, as she steps in, shaking her head and saying, “No, no. I’m fine. Truly. Christopher came home with me last night. I’m fine. Truly, I am.”

“Then what’s going on?” I ask, at the same time that Devlin invites her in and asks if she wants some green tea.

“That would be great,” she says, and we both follow him, with me trying very hard not to spew out more questions. Devlin’s right. Whatever Brandy’s reason for coming this morning, she’ll get to it in her own time.

He puts a cup of tea in front of her. “Would you like me to leave so you can talk to Ellie?”

“No. Thanks, but I came here to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” I say. “Do you want me to leave?”

A laugh bubbles out of her. “No. You can both stay.” She draws in a breath, then lets it out noisily. “It’s just that I feel bad about all the pictures. You haven’t seen them yet?” she adds, apparently noticing the way my brow has furrowed in confusion.

“From the alley,” I guess. “Devlin with Walt. How bad are they?”

“Some of them are quite vivid,” Devlin says, and for the first time I realize that this isn’t news to him. And, frankly, it shouldn’t be news to me, either. But I’d been so caught up in the world of the two of us, that I’d let the world we have to live in slip from my mind.

The punching bag, I think. It wasn’t about Carrie or Max or Walt or anything of it—or at least, it wasn’t just about them. He’d seen the photos and was working it out the best way he knew how.

“Tamra sent them to you this morning,” I guess.

He nods. “It’s what she’s paid to do. I’ll be heading in as soon as we eat.”

“Most of the comments are just silly,” Brandy says. “Talking about you being a badass humanitarian. Tamra called me, too. She told me not to worry about it and said that the foundation was more than able to respond to unfortunate social media storms.”