Someone decided that Avery's pain was worth monetizing, that her past was public property, that the woman I love could be dissected for strangers' entertainment.
I'm going to find out who.
And then I'm going to make them understand exactly what it costs to touch what's mine.
7
AVERY
My hands haven't stoppedtrembling since I left the studio. I've been gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds like the photographers might materialize behind me on the highway. They didn't. The drive was quiet, almost eerie in its normalcy, and I've spent every mile of it trying to slow my breathing the way Nick taught me—in for four, hold for four, out for four.
Almost home. Almost safe. Nick said he'd be right behind me.
The barrier rises and I pull into the garage, relief flooding through me so fast my shoulders drop from where they've been hunched near my ears. Three seconds of that relief. Maybe less. Then I glance in the rearview mirror and everything tilts.
Bodies rushing through the gap before the barrier descends. Several of them—I count five people scrambling after me—sprinting after my car, cameras already raised. They must have been positioned right at the entrance, hiding. Waiting for me. The barrier catches the last one's jacket as it closes, and he yanks free and keeps running.
They're inside now. Following me down into the parking level.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel and something cold settles in my chest. The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, making everything stark and exposed, washing out shadows until there's nowhere to hide. The concrete walls seem to close in as I accelerate toward my reserved spot near the elevator. Their footsteps echo behind me, amplified and getting closer.
Panic clutches at me as I pull into my space. I reach for the door handle, but my brain catches up to what's happening and my hand freezes.
Oh, God.They're already surrounding the car.
Three on my side, the other two circling to the passenger door, cameras raised and faces pressed against the tinted glass. Their mouths are moving, shouting things I can't hear clearly yet, and my fingers slide off the door handle and wrap back around the steering wheel instead.
Maybe if I just wait. Maybe if I don't engage, they'll realize this is pointless and leave.
But I know they won't.
The pounding starts—fists hammering against my windows—and the shouts get louder, clearer. My palms slick with sweat against the leather wheel.
"Avery! Avery Ross!"
Then the questions come and my whole body goes rigid.
"Can you give us a statement on your mother's interview?"
"Did you witness your stepfather's murder?"
The words hit me square in the chest, knocking something loose I've spent years learning to keep locked down. The shame. The memories. The teenage girl I once was, standing in a police station while everyone stared and whispered.
"How does Nick feel about marrying into a criminal family?"
"Why did your mother murder your stepfather in cold blood?"
I flinch hard, my shoulder hitting the seat, and suddenly I can't get enough air. Each question lands like a physical blow, demanding pieces of myself I don't know how to give.How do they know about the shooting? How much of the article have they read?The pounding intensifies and camera flashes start bursting against the glass, white light stabbing through even with the tint, and I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn't help because I can still hear them, still feel them pressing closer and closer.
"What kind of abuse did you suffer as a child?"
"Does Nick Baine know about your past?"
"Are you using him to escape your background?"
The questions layer over each other faster than I can process, voices competing and overlapping until they're just noise demanding things I've spent years trying to protect. My chest starts to tighten, squeezing like someone's wrapping bands around my ribs and pulling them tighter with every breath I try to take.
Another flash explodes against the window and suddenly I'm sixteen again, standing in that police station hallway with cameras everywhere and white light burning so bright I couldn't see anything else. The detective's hand heavy on my shoulder, his voice rough when he asked me what really happened, if I was telling the truth. The reporters pushing in with their microphones, everyone staring and speculating on what Martin Coyle had done to me, on where I was and what I might have done that day he ended up dead, how far my mother might go to protect me.
