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Her nose wrinkles, and she looks to Otto. “What about you?”
“I’ll buy a ten-bedroom villa on an island and fill it with women.”
“Pig,” Goldie mutters, and Otto chuckles. They both deserve those simple things and more. I’ll make sure they have them. Otto served my father loyally for years before he served me. He knows only this life. He claims it’s enough, yet I know his loyalty to my father won’t allow him to walk away from me. I’m not the young man he knew. My father wanted my sister and me to build a life away from the crime that gave him his name and money. I’m more of a criminal than my dad ever was, and while I know Otto struggles with that at times, I also know he seeks vengeance for my family as much as I do. But he dreams of more.
“And you?” they ask in unison, returning their attention to me.
I think.
Revenge. Peace. Death.
“There’ll always be people to kill.” I get up and leave them to fantasize about ice creams and endless women, calling Spittle as I go. “I need the report on Jaz Hayley’s death. I want to know who was on the scene, who filed it, who approved it.”
“I can’t access that information.”
Can’t or won’t? I know the file has been compromised. I know what’s in there is a pack of lies, which means The Bear has someone on the inside. What seems to be im-fucking-possible is getting the file to determine who has tampered with it. “Try,” I order, hanging up. There’s a bright side here. If Spittle can’t access it, then Beau Hayley hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance. But there’s always someone else who can. This should be dead and buried. God damn you, Beau.
20
BEAU
When I walk into the kitchen the following morning, the silence is excruciating. Dexter is nervously spooning Cheerios into his mouth, his face tired after his night shift, and Lawrence is wiping down the countertop with fast, furious swipes. Dexter shrugs when I throw him a questioning glance. I imagine he’s had earache since he got in from work. “Morning,” I say, flicking on the coffee machine.
“Morning,” Lawrence grunts, attacking the countertops with more cleaning spray.
“I think it’s clean.”
He huffs and slams the bottle down. “I thought you could tell me anything,” he snaps, and Dexter sighs loudly, dropping his spoon and reaching for his eyes under his glasses, rubbing into his sockets.
I collect the pot of coffee. “I can,” I reply. Most of the time.
“Then why the silence now? I know something’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on.” My words are robotic, my patience wearing thin. I abandon my coffee and throw my bag over my shoulder. “I’m going to work.”
“Where? You’ve not even talked about this new job. You always tell me what you’re painting, where you’re painting, what colors you’re painting. You’ve not murmured a word about this one.”
I hurry toward the door, Lawrence on my tail. “It’s an office,” I call back, the front door in sight, my escape close.
“Beau, please. I’m so worried about you.”
Guilt grabs me and squeezes hard. God damn guilt. I slow to a stop and face my uncle. The true concern splattered across his smooth face only enhances my shame. I go to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I hate making him feel like this. I really do. He and Dexter had a fabulous, easygoing life before Mom died. That was hard for them too, but then I crashed into their orbit with my pain and sorrow. They’ve taken me in, shown me nothing but unconditional love, and I am so extremely thankful for that. For them. I need their love, but I also need them to respect some boundaries too. I’m not a child, just a woman whose world imploded very suddenly. This thing with James? It’s respite. Like therapy. “You’ve nothing to be worried about.” I kiss his cheek. “Promise.” I break away and jolt when Lawrence grabs my wrist, pulling me to a stop again. My hiss of pain isn’t avoidable, and Lawrence drops his hold fast, alarmed. I cringe, feeling at my wrist over the sleeve of my shirt. Fuck.
Tension floods the hallway, and I swallow, yelling at myself to leave. Get out of here. Go before—
He lunges forward and yanks the sleeve of my shirt up, revealing the red, blistered skin on my wrist. His gasp is loud and shocked enough to bring Dexter crashing into the hallway. “Beau?” Lawrence asks quietly, looking up at me through glazed eyes. I can’t bear the questions in his voice. Can’t bear the worry.
Can’t explain, either.
I turn and rush out of the house, feeling shame I don’t want to feel and remorse that matches the routine feelings of secret self-pity. This is not how I want to feel. It’s no good going through blissful escapism if your reality is going to be ten times worse when you have to face it again.
