“I don’t care about them.” Her voice cracks with emotion. “I’m mad I’ll have to see them in hell, but I don’t need to take you with me.”
“There’s a special place in hell for people like them, sweetheart, and you won’t be anywhere near it.”
“Sure, just let me handle it. I’ll even stay here, no more fighting. You can tell everyone I work for you, whatever you need,” she offers, trying to sell herself out so she doesn’t taint my already black soul.
God damn it,I don’t need another reason not to hate her. “Let me worry about myself.”
“I just—”
“Iron sent me a couple photos. Let me grab my phone,” I interrupt, rising to rinse my plate, but mostly, I need to get away from her for a few seconds. I feel her eyes on me as I head to my room to grab my cell. While I’m in there, I also throw on a pair of joggers and a T-shirt. It didn’t seem like she was uncomfortable with my lack of clothing, but it’s hard for me to predict my reactions to her as it is, and underwear doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
She’s at the sink with her back to me when I return to the kitchen, so I retake the stool and wait for her. It’s weird as fuck, but seeing her move around as if she’s comfortable here triggers something in me, like I want to see it all the time. When I was away, I watched the cameras way more than I needed for this reason alone. I wasn’t worried about her escaping. The men I had in the building knew what would have happened to them if she did.
Using her hip, she shuts the door to the dishwasher and spins to face me. Her eyes slide over my chest and face. If the side of my face weren’t a mess of scars, I could almost think she was attracted to me with the way her gaze lingers.
“You good to take a look at these pictures?”
“Yep.” She rounds the island, coming closer to my side, her eyes already on my phone. I pull up the pictures Iron sent yesterday, and she leans in close enough that I can feel her breath fan over my hand as she examines the small ID photo. “No, not him.” She pulls back, allowing me to see the screen. I’d have to check the notes he sent over, but I’m pretty sure this guy lives across the country anyway, which would have sucked.
“You’re sure?” I question.
“Positive.”
“How about him?” I slide to the next photo, and she grabs my wrist as if to stop me from scrolling again.
“Him,” she hisses the word quickly and adds, “Dylan Nichols.”
I take in his limp brown hair and muddy dark eyes, wishing he were standing in front of me now so I could slit his throat after finding out if he was the one who hired someone to kill her. Her response was so visceral and quick, I hate that she had to look at his face again.
“I have two more,” I tell her, my voice tight.
“Okay, how was Iron able to find him?” she questions, looking at the side of my face. I have the urge to cover up my jaw or move so she doesn’t have to look straight at my scars, but I force myself not to move.
I thought I’d accepted how I looked a long time ago, accepted the questioning stares and learned not to give a fuck about them, but every time she looks at me, I’m reminded of the melted and disfigured skin on my face.
They told me then I was lucky it wasn’t my entire body that was scarred, but I’ve never felt lucky, not even when Rex pulled me out of the house with the skin dripping off my chin.
“I didn’t ask him. I don’t know shit about computers, so it would have been Greek to me anyway,” I admit. Another failing. Damn, I need a drink.
CHAPTER22
MAXINE
Winger sounds disgusted with himself when he tells me he doesn’t know how Iron found Dylan. Just thinking about him makes me want to scream, so I’m distracting myself with other details, or trying to anyway.
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Yeah, let’s get through these other two first.” He swipes to the next photo, and it’s another of Dylan. It looks like a screenshot of an article of some kind. I lean in to read the caption below the photo.
Dean Nichols accepting an award for his community service work at Mickey’s House, a local women’s shelter.
“Jesus.” I’m going to throw up. I wonder how many women and girls he’s taken advantage of. “He changed his name.”
“Or used a fake one,” Winger offers.
“Did you see what that article was about?” I ask as he moves on to the next picture.
“No, what was it?” he questions, moving backward.
