My hand jerks back from the keyboard like it’s electrocuted me. I want to rage, break something, destroy it. Pick up the computer and throw it through the window, take the chair and smash it against the desk.
Take a knife and—No. Stop.
I came here for concrete evidence, secrets I could use, and I found it. But it’s bigger than I thought. Older. More dangerous because it’s not over. Whatever they’re doing, it’s still going on, and somewhere buried with all these Carrs and all these women and all these years ishim.
This is what Carrson comes from.
What does that make him?
A crashing sound from downstairs makes me jump, my pulse lurching as my head jerks toward the door. For one heart-stopping moment, I think he’s back. That I’ve run out of time, pushed my luck too far. But the handle doesn’t move. No one bursts into the room yelling, “Gotcha!”
Another crash from downstairs is followed by male voices yelling. Heart pounding, I quickly log out of the computer and turn it off. I go to the door, but before I pass through it, I cast one last glance at the computer that now sits silent and innocent on the desk.
I should let it go. Whatever’s happening here, one person can’t fight it. But the thought doesn’t hold. It fractures the minute it forms.
I’m not done chasing this.
For me. For her.
Maybe even for him.
Chapter sixteen
Beaumont
Becky
The voices are louder by the time I slip out of the office and onto the landing, carrying up through the open space below in quick bursts. Not conversation, an argument?
I move silently, keeping to the shadows, my fingers tightening around the wooden railing as I lean outenough to see.
The living room is full. At least ten. Maybe more. Crowding in close, their bodies forming a loose circle around something at the center.
Not something. Someone.
A boy.
He’s younger than the others. Softer. Rounded cheeks, a scattering of acne across his face. He’s hunched in on himself, shoulders pulled in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Leaning over him is a much bigger man.
Handsome, but in a deliberately polished way instead of easy. Dark blond hair cut close, spiked into a perfect crew cut. A black T-shirt, neatly pressed. Not a wrinkle in sight. Dark jeans and belt. He holds himself rigid. Almost militant. I recognize him from my newspaper articles, all my research.
Jackson Beaumont.
His father is a Senator, his family nearly as influential as the Ashfords used to be.
His lip curls into a sneer. “You fucked with my stuff.”
The boy flinches like he’s been hit, his feet slipping against the floor as he tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere for him to go. Bodies box him in on all sides.
“I didn’t!” the boy insists, voice cracking. “I promise, I didn’t touch anything—”
The bigger man stands close enough that the boy has to tilt his head back.
“You shouldn’t have touched it,” he says.
“Yeah, don’t mess with Jackson’s shit,” echoes one of the watching men.
