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Now it’s like a cloud of comprehensions has burst above my head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I slip my car into drive and pull out of the side street up the road from Butler’s house. How could I have got it so wrong?
“All sorted,” Goldie says.
“How’s Beau?”
“In shock, I think.”
“Take her back to mine. I’ll meet you there.” I drive home in a haze of fury mixed with worry, because what needs to happen next might be the end of Beau and me.
And no matter what, I can’t let that happen.
I feel like my fucking hands are tied.
Powerless.
When I pull into the underground car park, Goldie is literally holding Beau up as she walks her to the stairwell. I hop out and hurry over, taking over and tucking her in close to my side. “She won’t stop shaking,” she says, opening the door for us. I nod and check Beau. She’s vacant. Hollow.
“Beau, look at me,” I demand, harsher than I should, truly worried.
Her eyes turn up. Expressionless eyes. She’s looking straight through me. I have no idea how to handle this. “Bath,” I say like a chump.
“Is that your answer for everything?” she asks, blinking and moving away. “Fuck me black and blue, have a bath. Get me pregnant, have a bath. My best friend is murdered, have a bath.”
I recoil, injured. “Okay, no bath,” I say quietly.
“I want a bath,” she whimpers, her bottom lip wobbling, her eyes welling. “I want a fucking bath!” She flips out, screaming, and Goldie withdraws, shocked, while I stand like an idiot wondering what the fuck to do. A bath. Give her what she wants, James.
I scoop her up, my heart squeezing when she clings to me, and walk through the doorway. Goldie keeps her distance, trailing a few paces back. “Otto’s boarded up the doors and swept the apartment and building.”
I frown. “Boarded up?”
“Butler drove himself in.”
For fuck’s sake. Hardly a security breach, more a fucking ram raid. Regardless, we need to get out of here. “Get it repaired.”
“Already on it.”
When I get Beau into my apartment, I’m forced to hang back while Goldie runs more checks, and the whole time, Beau cries shallowly, her shoulders jerking. Eventually, we’re allowed to enter, and I take Beau straight to my bathroom and sit her on the toilet seat while I slip my gun on the vanity and run her a bath. She stares blankly at her feet.
“This is all my fault,” she mumbles. “I should never have asked him to dig. I should have left it alone.”
“This is not your fault.”
“It is. All of it.”
I growl and kneel before her. “Stop it.”
“I killed him. And a cop.” She looks at me with glassy, traumatized eyes. “I backed Nath’s car into one of the cops. I’ll be sent to prison.” She shoots up, knocking me back, and starts pacing the bathroom, her hands in her hair. “Our baby will be born in prison.” Swinging around, she finds me, and I see nothing but terror splashed all over her face. “We have to leave.” She marches out of the bathroom, and I follow, my worry multiplying. “Pack your things, we have to go.” She flies into my dressing room and starts pulling down my clothes with one hand, tossing them in a pile behind her. “Where’s your passport?”
“Beau,” I say gently, moving in slowly, warily. “We can’t leave.”
“Stop me.” Drawers are yanked open, my boxers and socks tossed out. “I’ll be dead before I bring my child into this world in a state penitentiary.” She whirls around. “Why aren’t you packing?”
“Because we’re not leaving.”
She laughs. “Of course we’re leaving.” Her arm swings out and points at nothing. “I just killed a cop and drove away.”
“You killed no one.” I go to her and pick her up, carrying her back to the bath. “Nath’s car was hijacked and the felon shot him.” I help her into the waterproof arm protector. “The police showed up, and the felon panicked, ramming Nath’s car into the police vehicle. Later, the police found Nath’s stolen car burned out in a disused yard.” I pull her T-shirt off and lift her into the tub. “The end.”
She blinks rapidly. “Are you forgetting the cop left alive at the scene?”
“What cop left alive at the scene?” I ask, and she inhales, withdrawing. “They were dirty, Beau,” I say, placing my palms on her shoulders and pushing her down.
“You killed them.”
“No. The carjackers killed them.” I tilt my head, and she stares at me, stunned, as my phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket. “Otto,” I say, as Beau listens, her heart visibly pounding.
“Butler’s alive. An ambulance has taken him to the emergency room.”
“What?” Beau asks, sitting up straight in the bath. “What is it?”
“Nath’s alive,” I tell her, and she deflates, her hands going over her face. He’s alive. But he’s far from okay. I turn away from her, returning to Otto’s call. “Give me a minute, I’ll call you back.” I disconnect and place a towel on the edge for her arm. “Soak,” I order, adding some lavender oil.
