Page 4 of Daddy's Obsession


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“Stay,” I command, quickly making my way to the front door of the house to peer outside. I peek out the window, but I don’t see anyone. I don’t lower my guard.

Could it be Favreaux?

Even after twenty years, that man still haunts me. He’s my own personal specter. I gave up everything I had to ensure he’d spend the rest of his days behind bars, but I know as well as anyone that nothing can keep that beast locked up. Not forever, anyways. Is today the day my past finally catches up with me?

“What is it?” Penelope asks, her voice shaking. “It felt like an earthquake.”

Three sharp knocks sound at the front door, the ghostly silhouette of a person lingering on the other side of the thick frosted glass. I hesitate to reach for the shotgun stored on the top shelf of the entryway closet. If it really is Favreaux, surely, he’d be smarter than to show up at my front doorstep.

“H-hello?” The voice belongs to a woman.

Curious, and against my better judgment, I open the door. I’m speechless. Standing on the other side is a young woman in her early twenties. She has long black hair and deep brown eyes. She’s about a foot shorter than myself, her slender legs and long arms giving her an indescribable grace. She’s strikingly beautiful, but I’m too preoccupied with the brownish-red staining her clothes to admire her.

“Gabriel Lacroix?” she croaks.

My heart seizes. I haven’t used my real name in over twenty years. Concern lances through me. Who the hell is this woman and why is she bleeding all over my welcome mat?

“My God!” Penelope gasps behind me. She’s holding Odette’s hand, her other hand over her mouth in shock. “Does she need help? Pierre, we must get her to a hospital!”

“No hospital!” the woman snaps in English. Some words don’t require translation.

I frown. “An American?”

Before she can answer, her eyes roll back. Her whole body cants toward me, her legs giving out like wet matchsticks. I catch her, cradling her soft body in my arms as I carefully lower her to the floor. Her eyes flutter as she struggles to stay conscious.

“What is your name?” I ask her in her language. English feels weird on my tongue after going so long without using it, but I’m sure I’m clear enough to understand.

She winces, clutching the front of my shirt in her fingers. “Chester McHale… He told me to come find you. He said you’d keep me safe.”

My head spins. Nowthat’sa name I never thought I’d hear again.

“Chet?” I mumble in disbelief. “Who the hell are you?”

“It’s raining in the Sahara,” she rasps before she goes limp, unconscious.

The air whooshes out of my lungs. It’s a code. I owe Chet McHale my life, and it seems he’s finally calling in that favor. It looks like my past really has caught up to me, just not in the way I expected.

A sane man would turn this woman away. Call the police, get her to a hospital —anythingother than carry her upstairs to my room.

That’s exactly what I do, though, because I’m not a sane man. I gave Chet my word all those years ago, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I may not know who this woman is or what trouble she’s in, but the fact that she knows my former best friend’s emergency phrase has to meansomething.

“Penelope,” I say hastily as I bound up the steps. “I need the first aid kit.”

“R-right,” the housekeeper stammers.

“Bring it immediately. And keep Odette downstairs.”

“Yes, of course.”

I carry the woman down the hall and practically kick my bedroom door off its hinges. She weighs nothing at all. I waste no time setting her down on my bed, working quickly to inspect her injuries.

She groans softly as I help her out of her jacket and shirt. The skin over her left-side ribs is purple and red. There are several cuts on her hands and face, a deep gash just over her temple. The poor woman has dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks hollow and her overall complexion is alarmingly pale.

Most noticeable is the intricate floral tattoo that snaked down her right arm to the wrist and the one inked onto her shoulder blade: a raven with red feathers and an arrow in its beak. It feels strange seeing the design on someone else. It’s cleaner, the linework neater than it used to be, but its purpose is still the same.

She’s a part of Chet’s crew.

Penelope runs into the room with the first aid kit. I rip into it and get to work, cleaning up the worst of her wounds before applying bandages.

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