Page 132 of The Beast Who Begged Me

But I can’t accept the alternative for him. I will not pass a death sentence on Jesse Foster for the things he’s done.

“Why the fuck do you care?” he asks at last.

“I just do,” I sigh, because he’s not going to believe any reason I could give him.

And because I’m not entirely sure myself.

I’m standing in the doorway. Jesse keeps looking past me, and I realize he’s waiting to find out whether I’ll let him through.

I step aside.

He doesn’t move at first. “That’s it?”

“What did you think I was going to do?”

He looks down at the ring on my hand. I don’t make him answer.

“You can stay,” I tell him. “Or you can leave. I’d rather you stayed, but I’m not going to stop you.”

“And Damiano?”

“Won’t stop you either.”

He studies my face for another moment, then comes past me, keeping as much space between us as he can. I follow him downstairs. From the kitchen, I hear Sammy laugh at something Ricky has said, and Jesse pauses at the foot of the stairs before turning toward the front door.

“Why don’t you have breakfast first, and say goodbye?” I suggest.

“Tell Sammy thanks for the bag.” He looks at me, defensive again. “I’ll get it back to him.”

“He gave it to you, Jesse.”

“Yeah. Well.” He adjusts it on his shoulder and waits while I open the door. The cold comes straight into the foyer, and I want to ask again where he’s going, how he expects to look after himself. But he’s already given me his answer.

He’ll figure it out.

Jesse hesitates on the threshold, then steps outside. At the bottom of the steps he looks back once, as though he still expects me to stop him. Then he turns away and keeps walking.

There’s someone else whose accounts I need to settle—or at least acknowledge—before he decides to present me with a bill.

“I need your phone,” I tell Dami later that morning, when we’re back in the study. “The number that sent you the location.”

His expression changes at once. “What for?”

“If we’re right about who sent it, to thank my cousin.”

“Fuck that.”

I hold out my hand. He looks away, exhaling hard through his nose. After a second, he takes his phone out and puts it into my palm.

“He stood there and watched them put you in that fucking death match.” His voice has gone quiet, which is worse than the shouting.

“I’m aware.” I find the message. “And I’d rather discuss what I owe him now than wait for him to decide for me.”

“You don’t owe that lunatic a fucking thing.”

I study the pin marking the place where I nearly died, sent from an unsaved cell number.

“If it’s a burner, he might’ve ditched it already,” Dami says, a note of hope in his voice.