DENVER
“You can takeyour eyes off her in here, you know? There aren’t any paps about to jump out.”
Jenson sniggers as I throw him a shut-the-fuck-up-before-I-punch-you look.
For the past two weeks, the press has been everywhere Sinclair’s gone, the story of her falling for her bodyguard apparently being worthy of front-page news. Every chat show between New York and LA want her to go on and tell her story. But my girl’s refused every offer. She released one statement saying she’s taking a few weeks off work to enjoy being ‘close’ with her ‘hot, close protection officer’. Those words alone were enough to whip up a media frenzy with pictures of us together trending online, and the so-called body language experts dissecting every photograph of us together to pinpoint exactly when our relationship changed.
But whoever claims they can tell is wrong. Because they’re focusing on the photographs of after I became her bodyguard.
The real truth lies in the ones taken years ago.
Because, like I told Sterling, I don’t recall a time I didn’t love Sinclair. Whether I knew it or not.
My eyes slide back to her playing on the floor inside Seasons bar area with Molly, Halliday, Monty… and the tiny wrinkly pink addition she’s named Mabel.
“You sure it’ll grow some hair?” Jenson asks, eyeing the Chinese crested puppy.
“About as much as Monty,” I reply.
“Wow.” His brows lift. “No shit, that much?”
“Idiot.” Killian chuckles.
The three of us all greet Sterling and Mal as they walk over.
“Boss,” I say, noting the way his face seems drawn like he’s got a lot on his mind.
“Denver.” He nods. “Take a seat.” He gestures to the low table, and we all sit down. He opens his hand, palms wide. “Let’s make this quick. I know Sullivan has something he wants to discuss.”
I glance over at where Sullivan’s playing the piano, his head hung as deep, heavy notes ring out like he’s pressing down on each ivory key with all the force he can muster.
Sinclair’s eyes flick to me and she gives me a worried look as the classical piece carries around the room.
“Neil’s gone,” Sterling says.
“About time,” Mal mutters.
I turn my head back toward our table and nod. Not long after he claimed that he saw a man walking away from the yacht the day of the accident, he upped and left New York. He’s now staying in Chicago, caring for a sick brother.
It’s as though once he offloaded what he needed to, he saw no reason to stay. I can’t say I’m not relieved. I didn’t like him being anywhere near Sinclair. But we’ve still got eyes on him where he is now, just in case.
“We do have that new lead to look into, though.” Sterling looks over at Halliday and I understand the reason for his tight expression.
The more we dug into Neil’s claims, the more evidence we unearthed to suspect he’s telling the truth. We found a new witness working at the marina that day who claims to have heard a guy shouting for help minutes before the fire started. And a previously hidden donation of an eye-watering amount to the now-retired port service manager who was on duty that day has come to light. It was paid to his sister, not him, so we only uncovered it recently.
It could all be unconnected.
But I don’t believe in coincidences.
“I’m going over there to see what else I can find out. Poke enough shit and you’ll find some flies,” Mal says, clasping his hands as he leans forward over the table, keeping his voice low.
“Jenson, you go with Mal,” Sterling says, running a hand around his jaw.
“Yes, Boss.” Jenson’s eyes light up. I know he’s made up about catching up with some of his buddies he’s made in Cape Town.
There’s a loud crash of uncoordinated notes as Sullivan curses and slams at the piano keys, then stands in a rush, making a beeline for our table. He stalks over and slumps into an empty chair. The table is silent as he sits, sucking in sharp breaths, making his nostrils flare.
“She’s fucking back,” he spits.
