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What the fuck? “Beau!” I bellow, scrambling up and flopping out of the bath, going after her, my body feeling ten times heavier, dragging a saturated suit with me. I land in the dressing room and find her pulling on a pair of my pants and a T-shirt. “Will you tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Our lives depend on it.”
My God, I’m going to headbutt the fucking wall in a minute. “Depend on what?” I grab her and hold her still, not prepared to let her go until she clues me in on what the fuck she’s talking about.
“I know where the key to Mom’s safety deposit box is.”
I recoil, dropping her, stepping back. “What?”
“The night of the explosion,” she goes on. “I asked if we could open Mom’s special bottle of Krug to celebrate my Phase One Test results. She said no. She said I mustn’t go near that bottle unless my life depended on it.”
She turns and leaves, and I stand there, stunned, coming to terms with the fact that I might finally have that mystery put to bed. Did Jaz Hayley know who The Bear is? My cheeks blow out. In that box are potentially the names of two men many would pay millions for. But now there’s the footage to be rid of too. And the rest of The Bear’s army.
And, the top prize, The Bear.
“I’m going to Uncle Lawrence’s to check,” she calls, and doesn’t that snap me back to life.
“What?” I murmur, my mind playing catch-up. Going. Leaving. “Beau!” I yell, chasing after her. I’ll chain her to the frame in my bedroom if I have to. She’s not going anywhere.
I, however, have someone to kill.
63
BEAU
I smack the button of the elevator repeatedly, and as soon as the doors slide open, I walk in. I feel so calm. Resolute. Together. But as soon as I hit the button for the first floor, I’m dragged back out. “What are you doing?” I ask incredulously.
“Have you forgotten there’s an army of murderers out there that want us both dead?” He carries me to the kitchen, placing me on a stool.
“Have you forgotten that the army of murderers know where you live?” I retort, and he scowls at me but doesn’t come back with a counter. Because he doesn’t know what to say. He’s stumped. Doesn’t know what move to make next. To me, it’s easy. Go to Lawrence’s, find the Krug, find the key, find the deposit box, and burn the contents. Then we walk away. Why isn’t he seeing this? It’s all obvious to me, and what’s also obvious is the fact he’s being held back. Because of me. He won’t leave me, not now that his safe place has been compromised. Twice. I’m a problem, as well as a solution.
I look around his apartment, high and low. “Why all the glass?” I ask, settling my eyes back on him. I have so many questions, but this is the only one I know he’ll answer at this moment in time.
Slumping down on his stool, he rubs at his forehead. I hate the pain I see. It’s all over his face. “I was raised in a house with few windows, and what windows there were remained covered. My father worried about people seeing us. Knowing what we looked like.” He smiles, and it’s the saddest smile I’ve seen. “It was suffocating.” He blows out a breath. “And then when Otto hid me, he literally hid me. My whole family was dead. I was dead. And where we stayed, where I grieved and mourned and became angrier and angrier, it was damp. Cold. Lightless. I yearned for light. For windows to see the light. For things to be . . . clear.”
God damn my wobbly lip. I reach for his hand, and he turns his, clenching mine. “Let’s get out of here,” I plead. No more death. No more blood. No more darkness. I’m tired of hating. Seeking revenge is exhausting. Seeing this pain on James is crushing.
“I can’t.” He looks at me with a million apologies in his eyes. “Not until I find the man who killed my family.”
My shoulders drop. “And what if you never find him? What if Mom didn’t know who he is? Then what? I have to sit here waiting for you to finish the story?” I can’t do it. “Don’t make me walk away.”
“Walk away?” He looks offended, leaning in, making sure he gets as close as possible, perhaps so I can appreciate just how pissed off he is. “We are one now, Beau. Which means the target on my back spreads onto yours.” He slaps a palm down on the counter with force, and I flinch. “And that means I have to finish this.”
His expression, not the anger but the pain, has me comprehending with frightening clarity that he will never let this go. And, really, there’s no life for us constantly running. This has to end. “Then finish it,” I murmur, reluctant but accepting.
