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I chuckle as I peer into her brilliant blues. “I know patience very well. You, on the other hand, probably can’t even spell the word.”
“Yes, I can. F-U-C-K-M-E-N-O-W.”
I arch a brow. “Is that how you spell it?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s what I want. Will you give it to me?”
“Gladly.” I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin a moment before I lick it.
Emily moans and writhes beneath me. “Noah, I need you inside me.”
Shit. Her words travel straight to my cock, and I go hard as steel within seconds. I need to be inside her too. Desperately.
Just then, her phone, which is sitting on the coffee table, rings. It’s the same tone that’s come in several times since she arrived. One I now recognize and resent. I lift my head to glare at it.
“Ignore him,” Emily says. “I already texted him. He’s just mad I took the tracker off, and he wants to know where I am.”
I look at her, stunned. A fucking tracker. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might be bugged, because that’s something I see as a part of my world, not hers.
“He had a tracker on your phone?” I ask.
“Yeah. Don’t worry, Noah,” she says when I push up from her. “I disabled it.”
Did she really? Considering his security systems, it would stand to reason that Jackson has access to technologically savvy staff that could tap into Emily’s phone without her knowing.
I stand and go to stare out the window, wondering if somewhere down below, Jackson is staring back up.
“Noah, what is it?” She comes to my side and places her hand on my shoulder. “He won’t come, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I told him I need a few more days away. That I’m safe.”
Before I can say anything, my own phone rings. “Hang on.” I pick it up and read the screen. It’s Justin. “I have to take this.”
“Ok. I’m going to shower while you talk.” She rises on her tiptoes and gives me a kiss on the lips. “Come in when you’re done.”
The moment she disappears, I answer. “Yeah.”
“I finally got something for you. It’s not perfect, but I managed to clean up the footage enough to get a couple of screenshots.”
“Do they show who killed my father?” I demand.
“Yup. And you’re gonna want to sit down for this.”
“Just send me the fucking thing,” I say.
“Sure thing, boss.” He types away at something. “Once I figured out that the footage had been corrupted, I really had to dig. There were several minutes deleted, and I was only able to recover some. They may be out of sequence.”
My phone dings and I pull it from my ear to glance at the screen. And my heart nearly stops as I swipe from image to image.
They are all in Jackson’s study, where I found the nine millimeter casing. In one, my father is standing near the window, his arm practically grazing the curtain panel I saw the few drops of blood on. In another, he’s actively turning with his hand grasping his arm. A third shows him entering the study behind someone.
However, the most surprising part isn’t that I now have proof that itwashis blood on the curtain. It’s that it isn’t Jackson holding the gun pointed right at him. It’s Emily.
* * *
For a long while, I remain still, staring at the open doorway to my bedroom. Listening to the sound of the rain shower pouring over Emily as she hums a happy tune.
The tightness in my chest threatens to consume me as I remember my father’s body on a slab in the morgue. All this time, I believed Jackson had done it.
Patienceisa virtue. If I’d killed him without proof, I would have innocent blood on my hands.
