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I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth so hard that I’m surprised one doesn’t crack. I don’t know if I want the answer to the question I’m about to ask, but something in me needs to know. “Is she staying at the shelter?”
He stares at me, a sudden understanding washing over his face. He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to.
“Listen, man, I’m just asking for a nod. That’s all I need.”
With a frustrated groan, he gives a reluctant dip of chin, allowing me to proceed as we step away from the crowd.
“Is she staying at the shelter?”
He shakes his head, but it’s fear coating my veins, not relief.
“Has she ever stayed there?”
His slow nod in response sends a chill crawling up my spine.
When I try to step away, he speaks up. “She was married to Rob Ellison.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I had known that Ellison’s wife had sought refuge in the shelter a couple of years ago. I had known that the bastard torched his house before taking his own life. Most of this, by some miracle, had stayed out of the press.
But the pieces hadn’t fallen into place until now. How could they? My stomach lurches as the realization dawns on me.
It was her.
I understand Jake’s worry, his protectiveness. His dedication to the women at the shelter is a cornerstone of who he is, a trait I’ve come to deeply respect.
It’s one of the reasons we teamed up in the first place. When these women found the strength to leave the shelter, they needed somewhere safe to rebuild their lives. I purchased several properties throughout the city for them to occupy… a majority of them did. I had a reliable network of people who could keep a vigilant eye on them, ensuring that the men they escaped from weren’t creating any further disruption. But I never had any direct contact.
This was the deal. The line that was drawn. And I never crossed it. Not until now.
“You mentioned earlier that her landlord is putting the house on the market?” I question, my brow furrowing as I try to piece together the puzzle.
He offers another nod in affirmation.
“So, she isn’t living in one of mine,” I conclude aloud, feeling a strange mix of relief and frustration.
Without another word, I turn to leave.
“For fuck’s sake, Logan, wait—” Jake starts, but I’m already walking away.
Barreling down the grand staircase of the historic Blackstone Art Gallery, the evening air hits me hard, a cool contrast to the stuffy atmosphere inside.
It takes a long minute to find her, but when I do, I blow out a breath.
Standing under the yellow wash of a streetlamp, she’s trying to flag down a passing cab. She doesn’t see me, her gaze focused on the busy road, her determination evident in the set of her jaw.
She bounces on her heels, hurling a string of curses when a cab fails to stop.
I pause for a moment, watching her. There’s a strange sense of déjà vu, a call back to a time when things were simpler, when the two of us had too many dreams and too few cares. The sight of her conjures up a flood of memories, each one painted with a bitter-sweet tinge of nostalgia, and I can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
With a shake of my head, I stroll towards her, slipping my hands into my pockets as I lean in.
“You running from me again, pretty girl?”
Fourteen
Beth
