“Rory…”
He glances at me across the car, and he’s still angry with me.
“Later.”
That’s all he says.
The rest of the ride is silent until we get back to his place.
I’m happy to see that Whiskey is still as cat like as ever. Lounging in a brand-new bed that wasn’t there when I left.
He licks his paw and gives me a cursory glance before he goes back to cleaning himself.
“He missed you,” Rory says.
“I missed him too,” I whisper, fully aware that neither of us is talking about the goddamned cat.
I want him to grab me and boss me around. I want him to say mean things and fight with me so we can really make up. I want him to hate fuck me and punish me, so I can punish him too.
For believing the bullshit I put him through.
But he does none of those things.
“There’s something on the table for you,” he tells me.
Then he disappears down the hall and leaves me to it.
It’s a death certificate.
For Royce motherfucking Carrington.
My fingers stab into the paperwork as I yank it closer, ensuring that my eyes are not deceiving me. But no, they are not.
He is dead, and he didn’t even suffer.
Drowning.
He fucking drowned in a watery tomb in the Charles River.
What the actual hell?
It doesn’t make sense.
I read it, over and over again.
And then it hits me.
Water.
It if walks like a SEAL, and talks like a SEAL, then it’s probably a goddamn SEAL.
This has Booker written all over it.
He did this.
This is why he let me go. Because he knew he couldn’t get Alexander through the proper channels without him likely harming me or anybody else first.
So he resorted to his own form of vigilante justice.
