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“Okay,” I say, unsure if I’m saying it because I actually agree with him.
Or because I’m scared what it might mean if these incidentsareconnected.
ChapterTwo
Creed
I drawin deep breath after deep breath, doing everything in my power to hold my weapon steady when it feels like my world’s spinning around me.
This can’t be.I thought this man was dead.Everyone said he was.Medical professionals and forensic experts claimed that based on the extreme amount of blood found on his boat — blood containing his DNA — it was impossible he was still alive.
Despite that, my eyes tell me Hayes Barlow is very much alive.
And he’s standing in my brother’s office as if he belongs here.
This is the last thing I expected when I walked into my house this morning after leaving Esme.
Hell, it’s the last thing I expected…ever.Especially after my father called to inform me about the discovery of Callie Sloane’s body and that Hayes Barlow is the prime suspect.
But when I came upstairs and saw the door to my brother’s office cracked open even though this room is off-limits, I knew something was wrong.
I never could have anticipated coming face-to-face with my brother’s killer, though.
“I told you,” I growl, flexing my grip on my weapon as I step closer, studying every inch of him.
Hayes has aged in the past ten years.His once dark hair now sports a light dusting of gray.He’s no longer clean shaven, facial hair dotting his jawline, making him barely resemble the clean-cut race car driver that was once a favorite in the European circuit.He also seems bulkier, like he’s spent the last decade working out daily.Regardless of his changed appearance, there’s no mistaking those blue eyes.Ones I’d hoped never to see again after learning he killed my brother.
“You have two seconds to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here before I put a bullet in your head.”I clench my jaw, moving even closer, my finger itching to pull the trigger.
Put an end to this man, for once and for all.
Several tense seconds pass as I wait for his response, the room like a vacuum of sound.I no longer hear the hum of cars driving along the street.Or children playing.Or our neighbor mowing his lawn.All I can hear is my heart pounding like a jackhammer against my ribcage.
And the rage bubbling inside me.
Finally, Hayes relaxes his posture in defeat.“I need your help,” he admits in a resigned voice.
“Help?”I scoff, incredulous.“You break into my home—”
“Adam’s home,” he interjects.
“Don’t,” I bark, erasing the last few feet between us, my weapon mere inches from his head.“Don’t you dare say his name, you bastard.You don’t deserve to speak it.Not after what you did.”
“I didn’t kill him,” he seethes through a tight jaw, frustration and despair covering his expression.“I’d never…” He shakes his head, taking a minute to collect his thoughts before focusing his gaze on mine.“He was trying to help me.Help Callie.After I told him everything I knew about her disappearance, he said he’d look into it.But then the man with the scar followed me—”
“Man with the scar?”I scrunch my brow, unsure why I’m even entertaining his story.
“Callie mentioned seeing the same man following her in the days before her disappearance.I didn’t think anything of it.Until I saw him myself after I’d accused Jameson Gates of murder.When I told Adam, he insisted I disappear.Told me he had a gut feeling about something and it was too dangerous for me to stay.That if I wanted to help Callie, I needed to leave.So that’s what I did.He set me up with a new identity and everything.”He pinches his eyes closed.“I should have known they’d kill him, too.”
I lower my gun as I process his version of events.I shouldn’t believe him.No rational part of me should buy this story.
But Ididfind copies of a new ID hidden in this office a few months ago.If Adam thought Hayes’ life was in danger, I have no doubt he would have done whatever he could to help him.To protect him.It’s who he was.
“And your boat?”I lift my weapon once more, but I don’t aim it directly at his head.More at his arm.“Your blood was found on it.According to forensics, no one could have lost that much blood and survived.”
He smiles shyly.“As Mark Twain said, ‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’”
When I simply glare, unamused by his remark, he expels a long sigh.
