She wrings her hands, even though her expression remains carefully impassive.
It takes all my willpower to stay seated when all I want is to gather her in my arms and promise her that everything is okay.
I simply regard her calmly and allow the silence to stretch between us.
Finally, she admits, “I’m worried about losing my visa if I go to the police. I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal.”
My brows knit. “You haven’t committed a crime. You’re the victim here.”
She bristles at the wordvictim.
“You read the text.” She’s a bit sharper now. “Whoever killed Rich did it because of me. I’m responsible.”
“You arenotresponsible.” I don’t quite manage to keep the bite from my tone. I won’t allow her to feel guilty for my crimes. “Whoever killed him is responsible. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
She shakes her head slightly, dismissing my assertion. “I won’t go to the police. Please don’t keep pressuring me about it.”
“I won’t pressure you. I never said you had to report this. I wanted to know why you’re choosing to keep it to yourself when you’re clearly in danger.”
“Oh.”
She takes a moment to assess me. She didn’t expect me to be okay with her not going to the police.
After several heavy heartbeats, her shoulders slump.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admits. “Someone killed him. Rich is dead.”
It takes effort to prevent my eyes from flashing with triumph. Yes, the entitled little shit is dead, and I’d kill him a hundred times over for trying to force himself on my Karolina.
“Did you have a relationship with him?” I ask, even though I know the answer already.
“No!”
Her kneejerk disgust soothes the vicious afterglow from the memory of my kill. She never wanted Rich.
She’smine.
“Then why would someone who’s fixated on you kill Rich?” I press.
I need to know what the boy did on that night I was busy installing the cameras in her apartment. I’ve been worried that he tried to make a move on her when I wasn’t watching. Maybe that disgusting scene in her kitchen wasn’t the first time he tried to steal a kiss from her.
“He was flirty with me, but that’s all. I guess there’s a chance someone saw him hitting on me when we were out at the pub a few days ago.”
“Did he touch you?” I don’t quite manage to keep the growl from roughening the question.
She jolts at the slightest hint at possessive aggression.
Fuck.
My possessiveness is exactly why she ran away from me after the hunt. I have to be more careful. She has to come to me. She has to think our relationship is her idea, her choice.
I take a quick breath and force my shoulders to relax. “I don’t tolerate abusive men,” I explain.
That much is true. Every man who might’ve abused her is long dead.
Her lush lips press together, as though she’s holding in a follow up question.
She must decide that she doesn’t want to press for more information because she simply answers, “No, Rich didn’t touch me. Maybe just putting his hand on my arm, but nothing more than that.”
