“Would you like me to take you back to work?” he asks.
I hesitate. “There may be questions, I suppose. I’d rather. . . not.”
He nods. “Good. I have a meeting to drop by quickly and then I’m all yours for the rest of the day.”
I flinch, the weight behind those words hitting me as if they mean more than they do. As if he realizes how they sounded and saw my flinch, he tips his head toward me.
“Professionally, of course,” he adds.
“Of course,” I nod.
But I’m sitting in his Aston Martin, where he rescued me after a panic attack, his suit ruined, my face lacking any make up, as he whisks me away from work. Things are starting to feel anything but professional, but I don’t say that. Instead, I curl my fingers into my thighs and force myself to hold still so I don’t mess up anything inside the car that probably costs more than everything I own combined.
Eighteen
Otto
The computer flashes in front of me as I click through windows, sifting through information until the words start to bleed together. It was easy enough to find information on Ricardo McCoy at the surface level, but I’m looking for the deeper stuff now, such as how long his newly discovered embezzlement has gone on for, proof of misdoings, more accounts. What I don’t expect to find so easily is his proof of abuse.
Medical records are easy enough to hack. Unfortunately, most hospitals can’t afford, or refuse to pay for, top-of-the-line security, and it shows. Ricardo’s medical records are clean mostly. There’s a history of an STD when he was younger, an injury from a minor motorcycle crash that seems to have stopped his motorcycle interest altogether, and a chronic sinus infection he’s battled for years, but that’s about the extent of his history.
But Ava? Her medical history is extensive.
Most of her medical history transpired during her ten years of marriage. Before that, there were only a few cases of strep throat as a child. As an adult, married to Ricardo, there is so much, I have to take a deep breath before I start reading.
A slip down the stairs that resulted in a concussion.
Elsie’s birth which included its own complications and thirty-six hours of labor. She’d been alone for that despite being married, no spouse to support. It was significant enough for the medical staff to note her calling someone and them never coming.
A broken collarbone. A broken ankle. A broken wrist. Her tailbone had been broken at some point. Lots of broken toes. A few broken fingers. Femur. Radius. Ulna. She’s damn near had more broken bones than professional adrenaline junkies.
There was a deep gash in her thigh supposedly from slipping and falling, but the doctor had noted how clean the cut had been. Someone had asked if she was safe at home and noted in her file that they thought she might be being abused. She’d declined help.
But there’s one thing I never see in the records. Her daughter, Elsie, has a completely different history. No broken bones. No extreme injuries or sicknesses.
Which means Ava had probably taken it all to protect her daughter.
“Fuck,” I growl, rubbing my face. I knew it probably had to be bad, but god damn, this is worse than anything I expected. I can’t fault her for staying so long. Narcissists have a way of gaslighting people until their victim hardly knows there’s anything wrong. The fact she was able to leave at all and get her daughter out speaks to her strength. But even I know men like Ricardo don’t just let sleeping dogs lie. Her leaving would have been the biggest slap in the face. He would have hated losing control. No doubt, he’s been looking for her since the time she left. She’s lucky it took him a year.
She’s lucky Dagen hates Ricardo enough to go forward with this silly plan.
“You need better security, mate,” Wylan says from the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb.
I’d felt him come in, but hadn’t cared to look up. “I have the best security money can buy,” I point out.
And that’s true. There isn’t much that gets through that security without me knowing. In fact, the one man that could is standing in the room with me.
“Not so good if I got in, yeah?” he mocks, studying his black painted nails.
“How’d you find me?” I ask because I’d planned to stay low profile through this entire thing. The less people who see my face, the better. Dagen doesn’t come looking, trusting me to do his dirty work, but Wylan clearly hadn’t been happy with that. No doubt the fucker had decided it was a puzzle to find me. I suppose I should feel honored it took him two days. I glance over at the man with a raised brow as he leans there, exuding sensuality and confidence.
“A few bits and bobs, some rumors, and a hunch,” he replies, grinning. “Your system took me six hours. I think you could find something better.”
When you look at Wylan, he doesn’t look like the deadliest assassin alive. I’d never pick him out on the street as a threat, not in the way he actually is. Wylan dresses between a mix of punk rock and death metal Chad. Ripped black jeans, black chains hanging from the belt loops, studs in his jacket. The belt he wears even has studs on it like was all the rage when we were kids. He has piercings running along his ears, in his lip, in his eyebrow. Black ink tattoos run along his skin where I can see, but they never touch his face. He’s too pretty for that, even with his hair as black as the clothes he wears. The only spot of color on Wylan is his eyes, which are the softest blue I’ve ever seen on a man.
“As if there’s any system that would keep you out,” I grumble, scrolling through more medical records.
“You’re not bloody wrong,” he laughs before walking across the room to lean over my shoulder. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
