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Lindy on the sidelines of a football game.
I flip the last sheet and freeze.
If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you.
-The Collector.
I take a second to pull my shit together before I turn back to Ashlyn, not wanting to scare her even more. But this motherfucker doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. I wrap my arms around Ashlyn and breathe her in. “Call the police. I’ll call Sam.”
BRANDON
Anger is a basic human reaction.
A nice man can be angry and yet not capable of action.
Rage is a visceral response to anger.
A nice man might not understand the difference.
But I’m not a nice man.
I’m a man whose family was just threatened.
A man who’s listened to detectives question the woman he loves, as if she’s done something wrong.
I’m a man imagining my fists closed around a faceless person’s throat as I watch the life drain from his eyes. I’ve always known I was capable of violence if pushed to my limit.
Today, I learned what that limit is.
I may be known in this city as a nice man, but this motherfucker just mistook my kindness for weakness. And once we find him, I’m going to show him exactly what happens to people who try to fuck with my family.
Ashlyn sits on the couch with her arm wrapped around Lindy, who hasn’t stopped crying since she saw the pictures. Scarlet sits next to Lindy, holding her hand, and the oldest Kingston sister looks like she might fight me for the right to destroy thisCollector.
Sam is the only other one here, standing sentry behind the girls with me.
We asked everyone else to stay home for now.
The last thing they needed was the entire family knocking down the door.
Kingston chaos wouldn’t have helped them.
“Mrs. Kingston, I’m sorry to push, but we’ve got to ask again, is there anyone you can think of—anyone at all—who could be doing this? An ex-boyfriend? A disgruntled employee? Someone who might want something? It’s better to give us too many names we can look into rather than none.”
“No. There’s no one,” she tells them, and I run my hand over her shoulder and squeeze.
“What about your old coach?” She sucks in a breath, hurt shining in her already frightened eyes. “Have you had any contact with him since the Olympics?” I ask, knowing I’m opening a wound she told me about in confidence.
But my need to protect her and Lindy outweighseverythingelse.
“Mom...?” Lindy asks, a question in the word.
After a long look, she turns back to the detectives. “His name is Ron Myerson. He was my Olympic coach years ago. We had adifficultrelationship. But I haven’t seen or heard from him in fifteen years.”
“What do you mean by difficult?” he asks her.
“He was abusive. Physically. Mentally. My late husband handled it back then, and I never heard from Ron again. But as I’m sure you know, we lost my husband over a decade ago, and I doubt any files he may have had are still around.”
Now it’s Scarlet’s turn to look shocked and hurt. But she doesn’t say anything as Ashlyn stands from the couch and offers the detective her hand. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
