“Fine,” I put the phone on loudspeaker and place it down since I only have use of one hand, “I’m sending you a file.”
“What for?”
“Need it dealt with, and while I’d love to do it, I can’t.”
“Must be torture,” He laughs, “But the arm will heal. Who is it?”
“Kurtis Nolan,” My lip turns up at his name. Richard fucking Taylor’s right-hand man. Richard must have clocked on to my investigating him and ordered the hit. He always claimed he didn’t want a war with the Farrows, but he’s just brought one to his doorstep. So, what is he trying to keep hidden that he’ll risk his own life for? More women have gone missing in the past week, and no one is batting a fucking eye at it, except us.
“Richard Taylor’s guy?” Killian asks, “Why?”
“He was the shooter.”
“Fuck,” Killian hisses, “Are you sure?”
“Bring him in for questioning, but I’m certain, got a match on the tattoos.”
“You better be fucking certain, Dean,” Killian is moving again, and a door opens. He speaks away from the phone, his voice muffled, and Savannah’s voice replies. “Malakai won’t be happy if you’re wrong, and we make a damn mess.”
“You heading there now?”
“Yes,” He answers.
“Dial me in when you get there, I can’t come right now.”
“I know,” The sound of the engine revving to life fills the speaker, “Are you good, though? You need anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“And Lily?”
“She’s fine,” I close the laptop, “Just dial me in.”
“Will do.” He hangs up, and I hit send on the secure mail, waiting until I get confirmation that it’s received before I close the laptop.
As I’m waiting for Killian to call back, I hear the door beside mine open and her soft steps against the hallway, moving toward the stairs. I’d left the light on in the kitchen in case she got up in the night so she could see, but she’s barely been in bed an hour.
Knowing I have time, I get up and open my door quietly, peering out. She’s already making her way downstairs, so I follow her, watching her take each step as quietly as she can. From this angle, I can see the kitchen and small hallway in front of the door, but I don’t go down, instead, I study her from where I stand at the top of the stairs.
She moves toward the front door, and I hear the lock move. She doesn’t unlock but instead wiggles it, checking it’s secured, and then she moves into the kitchen, going out of view. I listen as a few knocks and taps happen in there and then she comes out, doing the same in the living room and only when she’s happy, she makes her way back toward the stairs, stopping when she sees me waiting at the top.
“Dean,” She breathes, her eyes blinking a few times.
“What were you doing?” I ask.
“I just,” She glances behind her, “Um, well, I just wanted to make sure I locked up.”
“I locked it,” I watch her as she tentatively steps up, “And there’s a security system.”
“Right, of course.” Another step up.
“You’re safe here, Sloane,” I tell her gently, “Nothing can happen to you here.”
“Yeah,” She nods, “Yeah, I know.” But the way her voice wavers tells me she doesn’t believe me. Does she feel safe anywhere? What happened to her? What made it this way for her? It isn’t the first time I’ve noticed the obsession with the locks, or how she constantly checks the corners of the room when she enters, or how she looks over her shoulder and positions herself with her back to the wall. She’s guarded and in defense mode, always.
“Truth for a truth?”
But she shakes her head and moves to step past me. I quickly grip her by the wrist, my hold gentle enough that she can easily slip out of it if she wanted.
