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Fucked up? She’s pretty fucking perfect in her own fucked-up way. I yank her onto my lap and hug her to my chest. “I want justice for your mum too. But by digging, I’m risking exposing myself.”
She frowns. “How?”
“Your mum figured out who I was,” I whisper. “She said she was keeping my identity as security. You pushing an appeal into the circumstances of her death wasn’t only bad news for The Bear and Butler, it was bad news for me too.” The video footage case in point.
“So why show me the CCTV footage now? They’re risking exposing themselves too.”
“No one will see that footage.”
“I have a copy.”
“It’s a cut version, Beau.” And even if it wasn’t, she’d be dead before she could share it.
She closes her eyes, shaking her head, as if trying to let the information settle. “So you found me,” she whispers, looking at me.
“And I wanted to kill you,” I admit quietly, hoping she’ll forgive me, since she just shot at me herself. “But only because I wanted to physically get rid of you to stop the crazy in my head every time I saw you. And because I knew you’d be the end of me. And you are.”
“The end of you?”
“The end of this me.”
“I kind of like this you,” she whispers, almost reluctantly. I smile. Perfectly fucked up. Both of us.
“I need to ask you something.”
She stills. “What?”
“Did your mum leave you anything?”
“Like what?”
“Like a safety deposit box key?”
“That’s very specific.” She leans back, eyeing me with suspicion. “And also the reason, I expect, why you conveniently brought up a conversation about safety deposit boxes the other day.”
I shrug. “I found a record for an account held by Dolly Daydream.” I raise a brow when Beau’s eyes widen. “Knowing your mum as I knew her, she would always cover her arse. Put security measures in place.”
“You think she’s put your identity in there?”
“It’s a possibility. Along with other information that might be of use to me.”
“Is that the only reason you hunted me down?”
I inwardly roll my eyes at her indignant face. “If I hunted you, you’d know about it.” I lean forward until our noses meet. “I’m hoping now that you’re carrying my baby, you might help me find the key to that safety deposit box to eliminate any possibility of your child’s father being murdered or put behind bars for thirty life sentences.”
“Thirty?” she blurts. “Fuck me, is that how many men you’ve killed?”
My lips straighten, and she pouts.
“I don’t know about any safety deposit box. Or key.” She looks truly sorry about that. “So what now?”
I pull her in, smoothing her hair from her face. “I find another way.”
“You kill more men,” she says quietly. “Before they kill you.”
Basically, yes. All while keeping Beau safe too.
59
BEAU
I sink my teeth into the toast and chew slowly, staring at the kitchen window. There’s no view today, the glass still frosted, closing me in. Keeping us safe. On one hand, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. On the other, I feel even heavier than before. A key. A box. It’s driving me insane.
And Nath.
I don’t want to believe it’s true, and yet it makes sense. His reluctance to help me. His evasiveness. His weird behavior recently. His dislike for James—a man he’s never even met. I need to know what the hell happened to get him in up to his eyeballs. And, maybe, convince James to let him live. I’m not a monster, after all. But James . . .
My cell starts dancing across the counter. “Oh no,” I mumble around my toast, leaning back.
“Who is it?”
I twirl around and find James coming down the stairs. He’s still in his boxers. I’m still in his T-shirt. All morning, he’s not let me leave his sight, except for just now, when he used the bathroom. But I know he had the cameras up on his phone the whole time.
“My uncle.” I brush my hands off, not only to get rid of the crumbs. “I need to build up to that conversation.”
“What conversation?” James asks, giving my thigh a squeeze as he passes me to the fridge. “That I’m a cold-blooded killer?”
“Stop it.” I roll my eyes and turn on my stool to face him across the island. “You’re not cold-blooded.”
“Hot-blooded?” He gives me high brows, downing some water, and I laugh. Then James stills, the water in midair. “What?” I ask, suddenly worried. Did he hear something? See something? I glance around his apartment.
“I’ve never seen you laugh before,” he says quietly. And it occurs to me. I’ve never seen him laugh either. Nor have I heard him. “Do it again.”
“What, laugh?” I ask, and he nods. “I can’t just laugh on demand.”
He pouts and sets his bottle of water aside, and I see something in James that’s new. Mischief. “Laugh,” he orders, leaning across the island, his eyes glimmering.
