“Wi-Fi password. Now.”
I gave it to her, and she tapped it into her phone.
“Is Tyler your real name?”
“It is.”
“What’s your surname?”
“Cross.”
“How old are you, Tyler Cross?”
“Thirty-five.”
Dixie retreated to my bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I stared at the ceiling, then leapt up. I didn’t need much sleep, but by now, the Atherton brothers were on the hunt, and a glance at my phone showed both had sent messages. I needed to direct them, but to do that, I wanted Dixie’s help.
After a quick freshen-up, I headed into the kitchen to cook breakfast. A minute into me frying bacon, Dixie appeared in the doorway, her cautious gaze on the pan and the knife gone.
I gestured to the tall kitchen chairs. “Take a seat. Coffee and bacon sandwiches incoming.”
She did, her phone clutched in her fingers.
While I prepped the food, her gaze burned a hole in my back.
“The Wi-fi password was a test.”
“I’m aware.”
I handed her a mug. Dixie accepted it, wariness along with some haunted emotion in her eyes.
“If you really wanted complete control over me, you’d isolate me.”
I shrugged, getting back to my pan. “I don’t. I just want ye to be safe.”
She mulled over that. “I could have called anyone. A buncha huge guys could be on their way to rescue me.”
Over my shoulder, I said, “Do I need to put on more bacon?”
Dixie made a sound of annoyance. “It wouldn’t even bother you, would it? You’d have a plan made and a trap set without blinking.”
At this, I turned back, showing her my resolve. “I’m only doing the one thing ye need and the one thing ye won’t compromise yourself.”
“My safety.”
“Exactly.”
She stared at me for a long moment, judgement in her gaze. “I just read a dozen articles about the Marchant family. There’s no way in the world I could’ve stayed hidden for long. If you hadn’t grabbed me, someone else would’ve. Or Mum could’ve seen pound signs and sold me out. It’s just, I’ve been running on empty. No safe place to pause. Even just a night in your cabin prison has been… Almost nice.”
My damn chest ached. I didn’t interrupt.
She blew on the coffee, took a sip, grimaced, then helped herself to the sugar and milk I’d set out. “The last article mentioned a will reading that’s been lingering for months. They quoted a source inside the family who said that the search for the missing heir had caused delays, and they were suffering because no salaries were being paid while the company was in limbo. Might as well have stuck a neon sign over my head reading ‘CASH COW’, right?”
“That whole family is fucked up, from what I can tell.”
Dixie gave a strangled laugh. “You have no idea.” She held up a hand with a finger raised. “One, the person who tried to kill me already,” a second finger, “two, the Shithouse who chased me from Warford to Torlum,” a third, “anyone with a news platform,” the fourth, fifth, then her other hand, fingers wiggling, “every Marchant family member who has been living off the company and needs that vote to happen.”
I rested on the opposite side of the kitchen island and lifted an eyebrow. “All the fuckers trying to find ye.”
