He was once larger than life. Now a ventilator is breathing for him. My mother is a wreck. She rarely leaves his side except to sleep and use the bathroom. Her hair, always styled, now sits in a sagging perpetual bun. Her once manicured nails are chewed from worry. She sits beside his bed with her hand wrapped around his, hoping her grip is strong enough to anchor his life to hers. Watching the man she’s loved since she was twenty-two years old slowly losing his battle.
And for what?
That’s the big, unanswered question.
We don’t know.
His partner, Marcus, is still dead, and his widow is still inconsolable. And we’re furious because they have held no one accountable. The person (or people) responsible gets to go on as if they haven’t destroyed our lives.
It’s not right, and it’s not fair.
My father has no enemies. Working as my father’s assistant, I found they took on the bottom-feeders of the aristocracy. The low-level, white-collar criminals no one else wanted. Nothing nefarious. His peers respect him. Their law practice, Ward & Caldwell, is thriving. He and Marcus had one argument—one—during a lifetime of friendship, and it concerned a man my father was adamant against taking on as a client. As far as any of us knew, it got resolved. Their shooting made no sense.
After the police questioned my mother and Patricia and ruled them out as suspects, their investigation withered on the vine. Sure, they did a half-ass inspection of Ward & Caldwell to rule out the possibility of a disgruntled client. They even questioned me since I’ve worked as my father’s assistant for the last year. But that’s as far as the investigation went before they considered it a random carjacking gone wrong.
In Brighton.
Where there hasn’t been a carjacking since…ever.
“It’s bullshit,” I say to the exhausted and battered reflection staring back at me.
I move my blonde hair from my face and touch the tender side of my forehead. The shallow cut stopped bleeding. I might be concussed, but I’ll take a little brain rattle over the alternative.
Thank God for seatbelts.
My body involuntarily shudders at the possibility of how bad it could have been.
When I hear another car enter the parking lot, I tuck a stray lock of my disheveled hair behind my ear, trying to show some semblance of having my shit together before I race out of the bathroom. There’s a sudden racket of noises coming from outside, but it quickly dies down. Even at two in the morning, the motel is active. Maybebecauseof the time of night it’s busy. I stopped at this motel precisely because it’s the last place anyone would think to find me.
Heavy footfalls slap against the concrete floor of the breezeway. I swallow hard and instinctively step away from the bolted door. As if someone couldn’t get to me with little effort. The window is thin and could easily be shattered. I might as well have locked the door with chewed bubble gum and Scotch tape.
Those footsteps pound closer. I freeze near the dresser and grab hold of it for balance as the room swings wildly around me. Beads of sweat accumulate on my upper lip as I listen. It could be Havoc. It could be anyone. I finally snap out of my stupid and slip off my shoes, fighting a flinch when my bare feet come in direct contact with the carpet. Stilettos, Jester taught me, are great weapons.
I take a deep breath and stand ready.
“Kerri.” Havoc’s deep, velvet-smooth voice rumbles from the other side of the door. It’s followed by what can only be the bang of a fist against the door. “Open the fucking door.”
I’ve never been more relieved to hear the angry voice of a criminal in all my twenty-five years of life.
I slip my shoes on and sprint to the window. A glance between the crack in the curtains confirms he’s alone. Self-preservation forced me to make sure no one is holding a gun to his head—as if anyone would dare bully Havoc.
But after tonight, I can’t take any chances.
Should I have called Faith? Probably. But the thought of bothering my best friend now that she’s finally settled down with Jester stopped me cold. After everything they’ve been through, I didn’t want to put her in unnecessary danger. Instead, as if with a will of their own, my fingers scrolled to Havoc’s name. My thumb tapped his contact info. The phone rang enough times to give me ample opportunity to hang up. I didn’t. And then he answered.
Too late to turn back now.
The devil is literally at the door.
With Havoc here, my fear finally subsides. I undo the bolt and knob lock, then stumble back when the door swings open. Havoc storms inside the room, filling the small space with his massive self. He secures us inside, relocking the door behind him. Then he spins and levels a glare at me. It’s unnerving to have over six feet of solid muscle scowling at me.
Rather than crane my neck to meet his glare, I step back farther and match Havoc’s energy. Give as good as I get. My parents didn’t raise a coward. “Thank you for coming.”
They raised me to be polite no matter the situation.
“Yeah, we’re cutting right through the bullshit.” His eyes do a quick scan of me and zero in on the cuts and bruises on my face and hands. I don’t know Havoc well, but even a stranger would see the anger that contorts his features as his gaze inventories each bruise left behind from the crash.
Havoc grabs my chin, turning my face this way and that to better assess the damage. “What happened?”
