“You might want to think about getting some discreet security for her. Not that anything has transpired or that I’ve found anything,” he adds quickly when my expression changes. “Just a thought. We don’t know who’s behind these calls yet. But considering they have enough access to call you directly and leave messages at your workplace … just a thought.”
I tighten my hands into fists, my knuckles turning white from the force. The thought of someone even thinking of touching Alyssia sends me into a slight frenzy.
“Also happy to learn she doesn’t have an issue with your career,” Uncle Brutus says, bringing me out of my murky thoughts.
“I think she’s concerned about the time I spend on the road,” I say, thinking back on how skittish she gets whenever I bring up my career. “But I’ve got that covered.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s not enough?” My question comes out with a sarcastic tint to it.
I get the impression my uncle knows more about Alyssia than I do. And I don’t like it.
“Yeah, sure,” he replies. “I would’ve thought that with what happened to her and her parents she might’ve had more hesitation about your career.”
Uncle Brutus says this in an off-hand way. But my back goes ramrod straight.
“It’s great that she?—”
“What happened?” My tone is rigid, a sharpness interjecting itself into my voice.
Alyssia told me her parents passed away, but based on the reluctance with which she shared this news with me, I decided not to press for more information at that time. Now I feel like a fucking idiot for not asking more questions.
“You didn’t know,” he says, voice turning grim. “Her parents were killed in a terrible car accident.”
“Shit,” I push out the words while running a hand through my hair. For some reason, that night in Las Vegas comes back to mind. Me in bed with Alyssia, running my hand over the rose tattoo on her shoulder.
I felt the uneven skin beneath the ink. Her immediate response to change the subject when I asked her about the tattoo should’ve clued me in that it was something deeper.
“Was she in the car, too?” I ask but I already know the answer.
My uncle doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The grim expression that passes over his features tells me what I need to know.
“It was during an illegal drag race that their car was hit.”
“How did you know?” I don’t know the words to even form my next question.
“When we had to do the background check for her visa we found some articles on the accident.”
“Send them to me.”
He hesitates.
“Uncle Brutus, send them to me. Please.”
He holds up his hands and nods. “Done. Listen, I’ll get on looking into who that call is from and get back to you with everything as soon as possible. You should get some rest,” he says, but I’m only half listening.
Minutes after we disconnect the call links to the articles sit in my inbox.
I click on the first link and flinch at the image.
Since I was six years old, I’ve spent almost every day of my life thinking about, watching, or at a motor racetrack. I’m no stranger to watching pieces of plastic, glass, and metal shatter and fly apart as they’re flung into the air from crashes at incredible speeds.
I’ve been in more accidents than I can count. It’s part of the job.
Not once have I ever lost sight of the fact that there’s a real person in the driver’s seat. A real human being whose body is easily broken and mangled.
Even with all of this experience as I take in the pictures of the destroyed dark grey sedan, it looks worse than anything I’ve seen on a racetrack.
