Page 63 of My Beautiful Sin

He studied her. “You don’t think I should say anything.” The thought rankled. He’d carried his secrets for so long that he knew he could continue to do so indefinitely. But for the first time, he didn’t want to stick with the status quo. He wanted Ellie to know the full man he’d become. A man with secrets and faults and deadly enemies. A man with a code and a purpose that both drove and defined him.

He wanted her to fully know him, because that was the only way for him to be sure that she was truly his. That she loved him and not the man she’d manufactured out of memories from the past and snapshots of the present.

He said none of that to Anna, though. Instead, he said, “You think she’ll bolt.”

“I don’t know her well enough to answer that. But I know she was a cop. And I know she almost walked away after learning that you killed Peter. How’s she going to feel when she learns that was just the tip of the iceberg?”

“Right.” He swallowed. “Well, that’s something to consider.” He turned and moved to the window, then lost himself in the view of the ocean. He pulled open the door and stepped out onto the balcony. If he turned to face the ocean, he could just make out the tidal pools where he’d first kissed Ellie. And where, more recently, he’d let her see the old Alex hidden beneath the countenance of the man he was now.

She was his again, goddammit. No way was he losing her.

But whether that meant he had to tell her the truth or hold his secrets closer, he truly didn’t know.

“Devlin?”

He turned back. “Ask Tamra to come in. I need to start working on the speech for the award ceremony.”

“Okay. Sure. But aren’t you going back to Vegas?”

“No.”

“So it’s all sorted out? Did you get the breach locked down? And what about—”

He held up a hand. “We can talk more later. Suffice it to say that everything’s under control. I’ve got more information about the breach and Reggie’s handling the rest of it.”

“But what about—”

The buzz of the intercom interrupted them, followed by Tamra’s voice. “Mr. Saint? Paul told me you were in the building. Do you mind if I come in?”

He pressed the button to open the doors, and Tamra walked in holding a folder, her expression tight. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I thought you might want to know. This just came over the wire services.”

Anna glanced at the printout as he took it from Tamra. “Is that—?”

“It’s an article on the death of Adrian Kohl,” Devlin said, referring to the man he’d grown up with. A man who’d recently positioned himself as the head of a criminal network in the Southwest. “Looks like I need to go back to Vegas this evening, after all.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

After Devlin heads to the office, I settle in bed with my computer on my lap to check my emails. I haven’t been able to get my work account on my phone for some reason, so I open up my laptop and check my account for The Spall. There’s not much there, but one subject catches my eye right away: Who shot Terrance Myers? Exclusive Tip.

I recently covered the Myers story for The Spall Monthly. I’d attended the press conference in LA after the billionaire asshole who’d captured and tortured almost two dozen children was assassinated following an appellate court decision to overthrow his conviction.

My article had talked about Myers’ history as well as some of the horror experienced by his victims. And, of course, I reported on the assassination following his release from prison—and that the police had no leads on the shooter who had fired from about a mile away from the roof of a bank building.

As far as I know, the LAPD is no closer to making an arrest. And while I expect that this email is going to be nothing more than spam or clickbait, it’s my job to look. And who am I kidding? I’m crazy with curiosity. So I open the email, only to find that there’s just two lines of text followed by those funky URLs with no words. Just letters and numbers.

I have an exclusive for you and

The Spall, Ellie Holmes.

Follow the link to find the shooter.

I hover the mouse over the link, tempted to go for it and click. But that would be beyond stupid. The odds that there’s really information behind that link are slim. And the odds that there’s a virus or some sort of worm that will let some asshole hack my computer are high.

But I really want to see...

I grab my phone and dial Roger in New York, then tap my finger on my desk until he gets on the line.

“Hey, kid. Are you calling to update me on the article about your uncle?”