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Nolan stands, panicked, and James approaches behind him, pushing into his shoulders, forcing him back down. “We’ll find him,” he says robotically, his face straight, looking at Danny, who looks plain furious.
I feel like a fly on the wall, observing our men in their natural habitats. Being The Brit and The Enigma.
My head is ping-ponging back and forth, watching, listening.
Fascinated.
James gets his cell out of his pocket and starts pacing, his attention on the screen, and Danny shakes his head to himself, still angry, but I know he’ll be more worried. “I haven’t got fucking time to go on a wild goose chase. Get me Len’s location. I want to know what the fuck happened to Fra—” His phone pings, and he growls, swiping it up, his eyes traveling across the screen. Then he looks at James. Thinks. And calmly puts his cell down and stands. “Find Brad,” he snaps, stomping out of the office, my eyes following his pent-up form. That’s it?
“Come,” James says, ushering me out, and I go, despite being suspicious. Danny wasn’t finished with business.
And then suddenly, he was.
What the fuck’s going on?
23
JAMES
“That was weird,” Beau says, looking up at me as I walk us down the corridor with absolutely no idea of where I’m taking her. Just away. From Danny. From the men. Anyone who might accidently blurt the latest news about Frazer Cartwright’s death. I need to think about this. Beau will be off around Miami trying to solve this mystery before I’ve had a chance to jump-start my brain. “Danny seemed like he wanted to say something and then didn’t.”
I keep my attention forward. “He did?” Lame. So fucking lame. Everyone in the room sensed what Beau sensed, but I had no choice. I could see Danny was about to launch into one of his little recaps on all the shit going down, and that recap would have included the fact that Frazer Cartwright’s dead. So I sent him a quick text telling him to shut the fuck up. Luckily, he got my message before his mouth caused us more problems.
“Yeah, he did.” Beau stops us walking and turns into me.Fuck. “What’s going on?”
I laugh, and it’s natural. “What’s going on?” Where the fuck would I start? “You know what’s going on. You’re making a point of knowing what’s going on.”
Her eyes narrow accusingly. I don’t shy away. “And what happened to my surprise?”
Fuck.
“It—”
Her phone saves me, and Beau huffs, looking at me like a woman looks at a man when she’s communicating silently that she’s not done. “Hello,” she answers, sounding irritated. Then her face drops, and our previous discussion is forgotten. “Oh,” she breathes, making me cock my head in question. She inhales, as if bracing herself, and nods. “I’m sorry. Is it too late?” She covers her mobile with a hand and moves it away from her ear. “Can you take me somewhere?”
“Anywhere,” I answer quickly, slightly surprised.
She nods and goes back to her mobile. “I can be there in an hour.” A swallow. “Yes.” Her eyes close briefly. “Thank you.” Then she hangs up, and I stand before her waiting. Looking patient but not feeling it.
“Where am I taking you, Beau?” I ask, after a long few seconds of silence.
“To see my dad,” she finally says, shuddering, like ice could have just glided down her spine. “I want to see him before the funeral tomorrow.”
I withdraw, taken aback. I can’t hide my surprise.
“I was never able to see Mom.” She frowns as she toys with her phone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, placing a hand on her shoulder, rubbing into it gently.
She smiles. It’s weak. “No,” she admits, and I nod, understanding. “But I know I’ll regret it if I don’t.” Moving into me, she wraps her arms around my waist and... hides.
I can hear her mental war as I drive her to the funeral home. Guilt is driving her. Nothing but guilt. She’s spinning her ring on her finger, checking the GPS constantly to see how far away we are.
When I park, I turn in my seat to face her. No typical words will suffice here. I can’t ask her if she’s sure she wants to do this. I can’t question whether she would prefer to remember her father as he was. Alive. Beau’s memories of him aren’t exactly fond. So instead, I say, “Okay?” and I feel like a useless sack of shit for it.
On a nod, Beau unclips her seatbelt, takes a visible inhale, and gets out of the car, looking up at the front of the building as she does. I join her on the sidewalk. “Do you want me to come in?” I ask. She nods, so I hold my hand out for her to take and lead the way, hating this uncertainty on her. The door opens before we get there, an old fella who’s suited greeting us with a sympathetic smile.
“You must be Miss Hayley,” he says, his voice loud, like he hopes to raise the dead in his care. He opens the way, allowing us to step into the reception area. It’s cozy in a sickly way. Full of florals—the paper, the prints, the carpet. But it reeks of death. “I’m Arnie Gluttenhiem.”
