The man's eyes were completely bloodshot and wild. Crazed. Unfocused and darting.
Like he'd been living on nothing but caffeine pills and stale crackers for weeks.
Dark circles under his eyes like bruises. Face unshaven. Hair greasy and unwashed. Clothes rumpled.
His hand shook noticeably as he gripped the weapon.
Amateur. Unstable. Dangerous, specifically because of it.
Unpredictable.
I was opening my mouth to firmly demand he lower the gun immediately when Ella breathed out in pure shock beside me.
Her voice barely audible but carrying complete stunned recognition.
"My God. Randy."
The critical detail took a second to click properly into place in my tactical brain.
Randy.
Rose's husband from New York.
The man she'd left behind to build a secret life in Paris.
Here. In this apartment. In his dead wife's hidden second life.
Holding a gun on his dead wife's daughter.
Shit.
31
ELLA
The world narrowed to three things.
Randy.
The gun.
Sabine.
Everything else—the rain against the windows, the hallway light behind me, Kane’s presence at my shoulder—fell away like someone had dimmed the edges of a stage.
Randy stood between the bed and the window, black rain slicker hanging open over a suit that had once been expensive and sharp but now looked like it had been slept in. His tie was half loosened. His hair—normally precise, controlled, parted with intention—was plastered crookedly against his forehead. His eyes were rimmed red, not just from crying. From not sleeping.
From unraveling.
“My God,” I breathed again, because my brain refused to process that this was real. “Randy.”
Sabine looked up at the sound of my voice and smiled.
Smiled.
Like this was a game. Like this was a familiar adult in a familiar room.
My heart cracked.
