I glimpse it in the vulnerable moments he gives me. He wouldn’t be here trying to bring down an entire operation otherwise.
I’m startled when he grips the remote, thumbs punching at the keys as he enters an ungodly number that leaps into the millions.
His name rolls to the tip of my tongue, but when my gaze shifts to the stage, the warmth in my body is replaced by ice.
My words clamp at the back of my throat, and another name is in its place.
No.
It’s fucking impossible.
My hand slinks to my chest, trying to clutch onto my heart to keep it from bursting. I can’t breathe; the walls of my lungs turn to stone as the heaviness in my chest grows.
The leather groans beneath my grip as my fingers dig into it.
This can’t be real.
Doubt washes over me in a furious wave, and my wide eyes blink rapidly, trying to clear the image I’m seeing.
My best friend isdead.
I saw Jenna’s lifeless body beyond her front door with my own pair of eyes. The pool of blood she lay in evident she didn’t survive the cruel harm that came to her.
I went to her fucking funeral.
Saint grips my thigh again; it’s painful enough for me to reluctantly look at him, but he isn’t looking at me.
His whisper is slow, low, that if the faint light from the stage wasn’t glowing on his profile, I wouldn’t have heard him. Would never have believed he’d uttered such a word.
“Please.”
I wouldn’t be able to speak if I tried.
How the fuck is this possible?
The police treated her murder case. They weren’t able to locate her killer.
An icy thought stabs through me like a blade.
The text message.
Everything that I’ve learned.
Everything I’ve witnessed.
Jenna wasn’t killed for speaking up.
She’s been taken and kept prisoner by Omnia.
“Oh my fucking God,” leaves my mouth. It’s out before I realise.
Saint doesn’t react to it, meaning it was quiet enough to not have been noticed.
There’s a multitude of questions running through my head. How is she alive?
Where the hell has she been?
She looks nothing like she did before.
