“No,” she grins. “I don’t mean that…”
“Dear God, please don’t tell me it’s something from your drawer!” I widen my eyes. Though I have a feeling that little stash of sex toys is going to be explored at some point. I have filthy intentions for the insatiable Miss Carter.
“No, this is serious,” she says, pushing herself onto one hand and looking down at me. “It’s something I’ve never shown anyone before. And I don’t know why I’m doing this now, but… I feel I can trust you.” She gives a crooked smile. “Maybe it’s all that hot sex. You calm me somehow.” I don’t rise to the bait when I see her trying to make light of the situation. I get the feeling this is a big deal. I smile gently and give her a nod.
“Sure,” I say, growing intrigued. I watch as she slides from the bed and heads to the closet, where she reaches up to a top shelf for a battered box. When she sets it on the bed between us, it’s with reverence.
“This was my brother’s,” she says. The fire has left her voice, and I sense she’s fighting tears. I straighten up, paying close attention as she opens the lid to display several items. A worn journal, some trinkets, a tattered sheet of paper that seems to have been folded and unfolded countless times. I don’t reach out to touch anything. I suspect that these are treasures that nobody could attach a price to.
I’m also certain there’s something in there that will help me take down Whitlock and his men. Something that Reed will probably sell his soul to get his hands on.
There’s no way I can tell her that, though.
“We kept this together,” she murmurs, running her fingers over the items in the small chest. “Each time one of us had a big moment, we’d put a memento in our little box. It was our secret.” She smiles almost shyly, and I get a sense of the vulnerable girl she once was. It’s little wonder her parents have the ability to hurt her still. They know what lies beneath the tough exterior she displays to the world. And they take every opportunity to twist the knife and cause her pain.
“May I look at it?” I ask. She gives a little nod and slides it toward me. I reach in and extract the journal, flipping it open.
“Kyle used to write in there every day,” she says. “I’ve never… I haven’t opened it since he died.”
I give her a sharp look. “Not even once all these years?”
She shakes her head. “It was too hard. I’ve kept it hidden.” I saw her eyes tearing up. She watches as I flip the book open as if she needs me to take this impossible step for her. What we see inside causes us both to take a breath. The top pages are buckled. Several sections have been torn completely out.
“What—?” she gasps, leaning closer to get a better look. I hand the journal over to her, and she flips through the pages. “This can’t be right,” she mutters. “Nobody should have known about this journal.”
“There’s still a lot here, though,” I say, running my eyes over his neat handwriting. I hold out my hand, and she gives it back to me. I examine the pages closely, and something strikes me immediately. Kyle Carter appeared to be intensely preoccupied with someone he felt was putting his baby sister in danger. And I have a pretty good guess who it is.
“Mark Whitlock was the one who abused you as a girl, wasn’t he?” I ask Andy. She pulls a pillow toward her and hugs it against her chest. Without thinking, she’s hiding her nakedness from me.
“There’s no way that could be in there,” she whispers, the color draining from her face. I don’t need another word of confirmation. It was him. “That happened after…after Kyle…died,” she adds. “He couldn’t have written about it.
“He was worried about you, Andy,” I say, skimming over the words again. “He said he didn’t like the way he looked at you. And then later…” I set my jaw. “He overheard Whitlock bragging he’d be your first whether you wanted to or not.”
Andy clamps her hand over her mouth, her eyes huge.
“But they were best friends,” she chokes.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I tell her. Everything within me wants to reach out to her, but she’s huddled into a smaller version of herself. Clutching the pillow like a lifebelt. “I think he was keeping Whitlock close to keep an eye on him,” I say. “He was trying to keep you safe from him.”
Andy chokes out a little sound. I see her gnawing on her knuckle, blinking furiously as she fights tears away.
“What else is in there?” she croaks out when I’m beginning to think she’s not going to be able to say anything more. I flip through the pages.
“It’s hard to tell,” I say. “Some of it just seems to highlight random thoughts. He truly loved you, Andy.” She manages a watery smile. “There are other sections about random events, but most of those pages seem to have been ripped out.” There’s no doubt in my mind that there’s been some sort of interference here. Which would make sense because it’s no secret to those of us who’ve worked in this industry that Kyle’s death was a murder. Now I’m positive that Mark Whitlock orchestrated it. And somehow, he managed to cover it up. No guesses how he got that right; the Whitlocks have had a stronghold on law enforcement for decades. The kid was above the law even then.
Motherfucker. With Kyle out of the picture, Andy didn’t stand a chance against him.
I hear her suck in a shuddering breath, fighting for composure, and right in that instant, I decide that Whitlock is going to pay. I don’t care how I do it, but he’s going to regret every moment of pain he inflicted on this woman.
“This was there that day,” she says, unfolding the scrap of paper I’d seen earlier. “It was the letter he wrote before he died. I got it before my parents could destroy it,” she says, her voice husky.
I run an eye over the hastily written note. And something immediately stands out.
The writing in the journal doesn’t entirely match what’s in the letter. The first line seems like Kyle’s style, and I read it several times.
I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to hate me.
The rest of the note seems oddly disjointed, the letters unsteady.
