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The prison is near Pueblo, Colorado. Getting to Pueblo, though, can’t be easy from here. It has to be a connecting flight which would take hours, not to mention security and all the additional time. I’m wrong. That’s not where he is. It can’t be.
But I stop. My gaze lands on one of the photos of him and Angelique. Behind them is a private jet.
Jericho St. James wouldn’t fly commercially. He would have taken a private jet which would get him there in about two-and-a-half, three hours, I guess. No waiting for security checks. No connecting flights.
I remember his comment about money when he told me he’d hired a professor from a prestigious conservatory to be my private violin teacher. Of course, he’d charter a jet if he doesn’t own one outright.
What is he doing going to see Danny Gibson? Is he even allowed visitors? What does he want to know from that man?
I feel clammy and my hands are shaking when I finally get to my feet.
What does he want to know? And what will Danny Gibson tell him about what he did? I remember last night. The nightmare that plays on repeat this time of year. He asked if I wanted to talk about it. Talk about Christian’s death, I guess. If he knew what I dreamed, though, would he think less of me? Because no matter what happened to me, what that man did to me, I’m alive. Christian is dead. He’s the one I should dream about. His death the thing that wakes me in the middle of the night. Not what almost happened to me.
26
Jericho
The house is quiet when I walk in well after one in the morning. Turned out I was wrong about getting out long before the storm. By the time I got through with Gibson and headed back to the airport, that storm had begun, and we were grounded into the night.
Dex heads off to bed and I strip off my jacket on my way to the study. I’m tired after not sleeping last night, but I need a drink before I go to bed. I flex my right hand. It’s stiff, the knuckles raw and bruised. Gibson’s face was harder than I expected.
Just the tip.
Mother. Fucker.
I’m surprised when I open my study door to find the lamp on beside the couch and the room occupied. Isabelle is looking like she’s been waiting for me all night. I can’t quite gauge where her head is from the look on her face.
“Why aren’t you in bed?” I ask, closing the door and walking to the liquor cabinet. I pour myself a glass of whiskey.
“I was waiting up for you. How was Atlanta?”
I put the lid on the bottle and turn to her, leaning against the cabinet as I sip and study her. She knows I wasn’t in Atlanta.
“Would you like something?”
She shakes her head. “Why are you so late? Your brother thought you’d be home by dinner.”
“Storm. We got delayed.”
“Really? Because it was a clear, sunny day in Atlanta.”
I smile, drink again and move to sit behind my desk. “What’s this about, Isabelle?” I ask, realizing I already know. I’m pretty meticulous with how I leave things on my desk and I remember everything. Although I’m not sure she was trying to hide this.
“Snooping while I was gone?” I ask, crumbling the piece of paper with the name of the prison on it. “Let me be very clear, Isabelle. You’re not to come in here without my invitation.”
She stands and walks toward me, gripping the edge of the desk, her face hard. “Why?”
I lean back against the seat and study her. She’s livid and anxious at once.
“Why would you go to see him?”
I see the crease between her eyebrows, the delicate skin pink around her eyes. Her gaze falls to my hand then, the one holding the tumbler of whiskey. The one that beat Danny Gibson to within an inch of his life.
“What did you do?” she asks, lowering herself to one of the chairs in front of my desk.
I consider what to tell her. If she’s ready to hear the truth about her half-brother and cousin. But Danny Gibson’s words taunt me. I know Christian got there in time to save her from being raped. I know because I am the one who claimed her virginity the night I took her to my bed. But how close did she come to being raped? And those nightmares, are they about her dead brother or about almost being raped? Being attacked by that piece of shit?
“Tell me about that night,” I say, feeling a tenderness toward her. I want to hold her. Remind her that she’s safe.
“There’s nothing to tell that you don’t know, I’m guessing.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Why? What did he say?”
“It doesn’t matter what he said. I want to hear it from you.”
