“But they weren’t. Even the people who were there, didn’t see what happened. It was all pure speculation.” He struggles to continue speaking. The swelling from my earlier blow effects his words, turning them mushy.
“You swapped out her blade.”
“Nah, man. That’s a l—”
My next blow hits his throat, cutting the words off just as effectively as if I’d cut out the liar’s tongue. I hit him again, then continue to pound at him, working the worst of the aggression from my system.
When I come to a stop, Jacob isn’t looking all that flash.
“Sorry,” I say, straightening my shirt and popping out my cuffs to tug my sleeves into place. “You were saying?”
But he’s far less talkative now. Not that I need him to fill me in on what happened. Even with Isabelle’s reluctance to discuss her past, I gleaned enough details from our few conversations on the topic for me to know most of what went down. The rest I cobbled together from paperwork.
The documents tell their own tale of her injuries, the likely cause, the eyewitnesses who were around to see it happen. Not just the injury that toppled her career but the rest of it. The inappropriate relationship, the grooming, the bruises, the personality changes as an outgoing young woman turned secretive and guarded.
He cut off her access to friends, family, and even capped the rink time spent with her partner.
“If you confess everything now, I’ll let you go. It matters more to me that you’re honest than what you tell me.”
A lie. A small one. Inconsequential in the scheme of things.
It’s also ineffective. I guess my fists already told him a story and a few reassuring words won’t change how it ends.
Instead, he spits out a bloody wad of saliva to the side of the chair and locks eyes with me. “You should thank me,” he says, offering a smile full of crimson teeth. “I broke her in for you.”
They’re the last words he says. Not the ones I would have chosen to retain in my memory, but I’ll live with the consequences. Once a gurgle is the best he can manage, I retreat and let Yuri finish the job. Something he takes to with enthusiasm.
I don’t know if Jacob has a current partner. My research suggested he had a son living elsewhere, the mother probably already thanking her lucky stars for her escape. I’ll provide for him, and anyone else the man might have been supporting. Now that we’ve got his wallet and cards, chasing up any outstanding leads will be easy.
The double sink along the side wall has a basin filled with ice and cold water at the ready. I leave my hands in there for as long as I can stand, hoping the bruising won’t be enough to draw too much attention.
I had planned to use a bat but the satisfaction of crunching my fists into his flesh wiped that option off the table.
Leaving Yuri to clean up, I walk inside and go to the nursery where Sophia’s new nanny is busy failing to teach her according to the strict lesson plan. I watch from the doorway as the elderly woman struggles to keep pace with my daughter’s rampant jumps in logic.
The board has some simple sums written on it but judging from the sheet of paper in front of Sophia, they’ve been distracted from the maths lesson by a royal court of frogs.
“Daddy,” she screams the moment she spies me, running over while Ms Lillet fails to hold her attention. “Come and look at my drawing.”
I let myself be led, listening as Sophia lays out the groundwork for a very complicated backstory. Death and destruction are a common occurrence in the frog court judging by the amount of crimson crayon used in the illustration.
Finally, she winds down, eyes blinking for longer and longer as she approaches her afternoon nap. “I’ll take her,” I assure the exhausted nanny, wondering if I should have kept hunting longer to find someone who wouldn’t be so easily worn out.
Carrying Sophia to her room, I duck into the study to see Isabelle frowning at the pages spread across the double desk. She looks up with a grateful smile at the interruption, coming over to give my daughter a kiss on her cheek before walking with me along the hall.
After transferring her to bed, we stay a while, watching while she sleeps. My hand steals around Isabelle’s waist, spreading my fingers across her lower belly. I don’t know whether or not it’s my imagination, but I feel a slight padding.
Reading my mind, Isabelle links her fingers through mine. “That’s the result of Nora’s wonderful breakfasts,” she whispers, wrinkling her nose. “Nothing to do with little Baxter.”
We’d had the first scan a week ago; the results proudly displayed on the fridge, my screensaver, the background on my phone, and a multitude of other places where digital photos demand to be seen.
The ultrasound technician had insisted that she couldn’t sex the baby because he was turned the wrong way. I just assumed my son is playing coy and will be my first male heir until proven otherwise.
“How’d you think she’ll enjoy being kicked out of the line of succession by a little brother?” I ask, burying my face in the back of Isabelle’s neck and nipping at the tight skin there.
“Considering she still wants to become an artist, I doubt she’ll care, but you might want to leave space in their future for whatever they decide.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
