She’s looking back at the board, taking in my scrawled notes.
“Who did it?” she finally asks. Of course she wants to know. Who wouldn’t?
“Whitlock.” As if that wasn’t already evident.
“But he was Kyle’s best friend!” She glares at me with such animosity it’s as if I was the one holding the gun to her brother’s head.
“They were working together, not friends. And you saw the journal, Andy. He was hanging around so he could get his hands on you. Kyle’s baby sister. The bastard wanted you.”
“And that’s why he killed him?” she chokes out a sob. “Because of me?”
“Who knows why men like Mark Whitlock do what they do, Andy. He’s not normal.”
Not fucking human, in my opinion. If I had half a chance, I’d put him down like the rabid dog that he is. For what he did to her…to so many others. For what he plans to continue doing. Too many lives are at stake to drop this now.
Her shoulders sag and her chin droops to her chest. I realize that she’s crying silently and it’s like a knife in my chest. I pull her toward me and this time, thank God, she doesn’t resist. I tighten my grasp, feeling her go soft against me. Tiny sounds of pain bubble up her throat. Jesus, it’s going to kill me.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, brushing my lips against the top of her head. Though I try to keep my grasp gently firm, she draws away and looks up at me. Hazel eyes are now green pools.
“I need to think.” She steps farther away from me. I let my hands drop at my sides.
“Go back to bed. I’ll bring you coffee. Breakfast…”
My heart, on a plate.
“No… I can’t be here now. I have to think,” she says it again, backing away from me. “I…I…” She shakes her head. “I can’t do this here, Mateo.”
I go rigid. She can’t leave. It’s not safe.
“Andy, you can’t go when—” Her raised hand stops me.
“Just leave me alone, okay? Let me figure this out. I’ll…I’ll call you later.”
“I’m so sorry, Andy.” It’s all I can say, and it feels so fucking inadequate.
She spins away, bare feet silent as she half-runs from my office. I don’t follow her. It would be pointless. I’ll only cloud her thoughts more – because I want to. I want to make my involvement in all of this less damning. I want her to see me differently – not as the jerk who’s deconstructed everything she knows about her past, her family.
I hear muffled sounds from below as I lean back against the wall. Minutes later, the front door slams. And she’s gone.
Chapter 18
Andy Carter
When I check into the hotel, nobody questions what I’m doing here. I thank God Antoine booked the honeymoon package with the option for a bridal suite the night before the wedding. Even Tony and Mikey seem to accept it, though perhaps they’d been surprised when I’d stormed out of the apartment at first light. Probably putting it down to wedding jitters.
It’s more than that. So much more.
The interior of the room is gorgeous. Decadent and feminine with angels dancing on the rich gold wallpaper, and chandeliers glittering overhead. The air is fragranced with roses and lilies, and even though I’ve checked in early, there’s an ice-bucket on the table in the living area. It’s barely breakfast time, but I snatch the bottle of champagne like it’s a lifeline. Is it possible that I drink too much? It’s not like I have anything to celebrate right now.
Screw it.
I drop the hastily packed bag I’m holding, and I pop the bottle. I don’t care when I fill the glass to the point that it bubbles onto the table. Antoine had made me swear that I wouldn’t get tipsy before the big day.
“Your eyes will be puffy, darling. Your beautiful skin won’t glow…” he’d said in that strange accent that I’ve never been able to put my finger on. I’m pretty sure it’s made up.
Screw that too. I don’t care about puffy eyes. They’re already bloodshot from the tears I’d succumbed to earlier when I’d collapsed against Mateo’s chest. So damn weak. I hate fucking crying. Hate needing comfort.
There’s an ornate gold and blue sofa nearby and I flop onto it, downing half the glass in one thirsty gulp. Then I realize that I’ve chosen the wrong damn seat because directly across from me is a dress stand. My glorious white wedding gown holds pride of place beside a tall, gold-curtained window. Morning light glitters off the tiny crystals that highlight the delicate flowers of the bodice. It’s standing there like a damning accusation.
