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“Tell me!” I cry, my voice breaking. “Please, just tell me.”
North and Wint share a look before North takes a deep breath and speaks. “Dash…he’s not here.”
My heart drops to my stomach. “What do you mean?”
“Tesoro,” Wint says softly, cupping my cheek with his other hand. “Dash is with his family. Recovering.”
“Recovering?” I frown. “Recovering from what?”
Wint hesitates and North takes over. “The night you were taken, Dash was shot.”
NORTH
Fucking hell, I could kill Dash myself for betraying Candy’s trust like that. It’s absolutely unforgivable. I can’t figure out why he needed the money so badly, or why he felt the need to keep whatever trouble he’s in from us, and I have no real problem with the theft, but the betrayal of trust – of her trust and everything the club stands for – is indefensible.
If he’d just confided in us we could have banded together to sort the problem. It’s what family does.
But no matter how much he hurt Candy, it’s clear she still cares about him; shown by the total devastation written on her face when I broke the news to her and the way she immediately demanded we take her to see him.
Even now as we race towards Dash’s parents’ house and she stares out of the window with every passing mile, her foot bounces nervously jostling her leg up and down, and her hands are twisting in the hem of her jumper.
“Hey, he’s okay,” I try to reassure her, sliding my hand over to her thigh with the intention of taking her hand, but she jolts and flinches. I ignore the ache that causes in my chest and return my hand to the wheel, giving her space.
She doesn’t say a word.
As we pull into Dash’s parents’ driveway, Candy’s breathing turns shallow and fast. I can practically hear her heart pounding in her chest, and I can tell she’s trying to steady herself before we make our way into the house.
I reach across the centre console again and touch her arm gently. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” I say, my voice low and steady. “I know you’re worried about him, but he hurt you, and you don’t have to face him.”
But Candy shakes her head fiercely. “I need to see him,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to know why he did it.”
I nod, understanding all too well what it feels like to need answers that might be impossible to find. We climb out of the car and make our way up to the front door, and Candy knocks hesitantly.
The door swings open, and Dash’s mother looks at us with a mix of surprise, her face lined with stress and her eyes swimming in grief. “What brings you here?” she asks, her voice shaking slightly.
Candy steps forward, her face determined. “We need to see Dash,” she says, her voice clipped and resolute.
Dash’s mother hesitates for a moment before nodding and stepping aside to let us in. “He’s upstairs,” she says quietly, her eyes downcast. “I don’t know if he’s ready to see anyone yet.”
But Candy is already pushing past her, her steps heavy and determined as she climbs the stairs. I follow close behind, my heart aching at the sight of her pain.
When we reach the top of the stairs, Candy stops in front of a closed door, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She takes a deep breath and turns to me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I need to do this alone,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can you wait for me downstairs?”
I want to protest, to insist that I stay with her, but I can see the determination in her eyes, and I know there’s no convincing her otherwise. So I nod silently and watch as she disappears into the room, closing the door softly behind her.
I make my way down the stairs and into the living room, where Dash’s mother is sitting on the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, staring into space. I take a seat beside her, the silence between us heavy and thick. I don’t know what to say to this stranger, and if I’m honest, my mind is completely focused on what’s going on upstairs.
After what feels like an eternity, the door to Dash’s room creaks open, and Candy emerges, her eyes red-rimmed but her expression unreadable. She makes her way over to us and takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, her back ramrod straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“He said he did it to help someone,” she says, her voice flat and emotionless. “He wouldn’t tell me who, but he said he didn’t have a choice.”
Of course he did. Dash is not a bad guy.
I’m trying to formulate my response when Dash’s mother bursts into noisy sobs, tears streaming down her face. Candy is up out of her seat and comforting her before I can blink.
“It’s all h-his f-fault,” she sobs.
“Ma’am?”
