He doesn’tlookfine.
My heart flutters madly. “Nico.” I twist my fingers together. “I have to tell you something.”
“Sofia,” he repeats. “I need to tell you something first.”
In his eyes, emotions storm. Anger. Sorrow. Shock. Despair.
My heart beats so quickly it makes me lightheaded. “What?”
His gaze drops to his lap. In a low, flat tone, he says, “I found the guy. The one who shot at you. It was him.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.
“I got him to talk,” Nico continues. “I found out—” He takes a deep breath and releases it. “I found out who hired him.”
“You…” My hands start shaking. “You did?”
Still staring at his lap, he nods. “I did.”
“Who was it?”
But I know who, don’t I?
Nico’s gaze rises to meet mine. Agony twists his features. “It was my father.” He looks down again. His jaw works. “It was my father. My fuckingfatherpaid him to kill you.”
His fist thumps the mattress. “I don’t… I can’t… Fuck.Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t…”
“Nico—”
“I’m so fucking sorry, Soph.” His eyes are damp. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I don’t understand.”
Oh.
My heart breaks for him.
“I don’t understand,” he repeats. “I know what he did before. It’s awful. But to do this? And if he hired the people before… It doesn’t make sense. We weren’t even talking back then. Why?—”
It feels like I’m balanced at the edge of a cliff. Except there’s no going back. All I can do is jump off it.
“I think I know why,” I reply. “While you were gone. I remembered everything.”
Chapter Sixteen
NICO
“What time are your parents supposed to be back?”
Houdini glances over from the passenger seat to look at me before adding, “I should be able to get into the safe in five, ten minutes, depending on the brand and model. But if there’s more than one…”
“I think there’s just the one,” I reply. “And the event they’re attending doesn’t end until ten. So you should have plenty of time.”
From the backseat, Jester asks, “What about if they come home early?” He pauses. “Not that I’m worried about being caught. But we want enough time to conduct a complete search of his office.”
“They won’t leave early,” I tell him. Signaling to turn onto my parents’ street, I wait until I’ve turned before adding bitterly, “My father’s receiving an award. And they always do the awards last. So they won’t leave until the end.”
My jaw clenches at the irony of it. My fucking criminal of a father, getting a damn award for his contributions to homesecurity. Part of me—a big part—wants to march into the banquet hall and announce the truth of who he is.
He’s not someone to look up to. Not someone to emulate. Not someone to celebrate.
