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“And the phone. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
He wanted to nibble her lower lip, take his time tasting every millimeter, but since they had company, he settled for a quick tap. At least, that had been his intention, but Emma wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into the kiss, and he didn’t exactly put up a fight. Their tongues brushed lazily, nothing hurried or forced. Nothing leading anywhere, a kiss for the sake of kissing—a kiss that might not be happening if he’d arrived at her house a few minutes later.
Suddenly unable to breathe, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and held tight.
Papácalled into the room. “Julio just texted. He said a new report on the fire is about to air.”
“Thank you,” Noah said, but he held Emma a moment longer before releasing her.
AfterMamáembraced Emma, the four of them sat on the sofa.MamáandPapáhad the living room TV tuned to Channel 11. Noah had tasked Julio with monitoring the news, looking for anything they needed to know or get out in front of PR-wise. Damage control worked best when, one, it wasn’t required and, two, when it was dealt with swiftly. And lord knew neither he nor Whitlow Group needed any more bad PR.
Emma was Noah’s biggest concern, of course, but the company would always be a priority, too. The Lone-Star Tech lawsuits were already a hotbed topic, but now, to have Emma attacked in court and at home because of them, it could either be gasoline on the fire or exactly what the company needed to put an end to the mess once and for all.
“Luckily,” the female reporter was saying, “no one was injured during the blaze, and the fire department was able to contain the fire before it spread to any of the neighboring homes. The police say they have a person of interest in the case, but the name has not been released to the public. They also won’t confirm whether this person of interest is a suspect or a witness. They do, however, confirm that preliminary reports indicate the blaze could have been set in retaliation.”
The anchor’s male counterpart picked up the report. “The home in question belongs to Emma Morgan, an attorney with the Houston-based legal firm Reynolds, Clark & Morgan. Ms. Morgan took over the position as Whitlow Group’s lead counsel after the prior attorney suffered a heart attack in court, a spokesperson for Reynolds, Clark & Morgan has confirmed.”
The female anchor continued. “Unfortunately for Ms. Morgan, she is not a stranger to tragedy. Her mother was the victim of a single-car accident fifteen years ago, and her brother was shot when—”
“Turn it off!” Emma rocketed from the couch and lunged for the TV, but the screen went black before she’d even taken two steps.Papáheld the remote out to her as if it were a nuclear warhead with a faulty wire. She grabbed it, tucked it to her chest, and stumbled from the room, Noah on her heels.
Noah pulledhis SUV into a parking spot outside the New Hope Commons. The five-story building looked like an old apartment complex, well-maintained but with no frills.
He turned to Emma. “What are we doing here?”
“Just follow me.” With that, she stepped from the vehicle.
Together, they headed up the walk. After seeing the newscast, Emma had shut down. She’d mumbled something about not wanting him to find out like that and made him promise not to turn the TV back on. Then she’d disappeared upstairs for nearly ten minutes. When she’d returned, she’d looked broken, as if the flap of butterfly wings could knock her down.
When they were a dozen steps away from the main entrance, a familiar figure stepped from the gazebo off to the left and headed their way. He recognized Whitlow Tower’s head of security instantly. When Andi reached them, the two women embraced and held tight. Emma’s shoulders shook, and much to his surprise, so did Andi’s, a woman he’d seen take down men twice her size without ever breaking stride.
Emma whispered something to Andi, and when the two women pulled apart, neither spoke nor spared him a glance as they entered the building. Once inside, Andi went straight, and he and Emma turned left. They passed through double doors that Emma bypassed with a six-digit code. They took an immediate right and stopped at the third door on the left; a placard dubbed it “Observation Room 3.”
After a brief hesitation, Emma went inside. The room was a stark contrast to the clinical aesthetic they’d passed through thus far. With lots of warm colors and a welcome sitting area with a floral sofa and a couple of burgundy armchairs, it could have been a grandmother’s living room from any generic American sitcom. The only thing that wouldn’t fit that scene was the glass window that showed another room’s interior.
A lone man in sweats leaned on a table, tapping on the tabletop with his index finger as if waiting anxiously for someone. He was trim, well over six feet tall, and a tad on the gaunt side, but his shoulders were broad. His bright ginger hair was messy, as if he’d been worrying fingers through it for—
Wait.
Bright ginger hair?
Heartbeat accelerating, he turned to Emma for confirmation of his suspicions. She had both palms pressed to the glass, pain painting her face in harsh lines, and it was all the confirmation he needed.
Her brother was alive.
