Page 85 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ipark Shelby in front of his house, somewhat amazed that I’d been able to find it again. I’ve only been the one time when I dropped him off after the Terrance Myers press conference.

It was dark then, too. But not this late.

I glance down at the dashboard clock and realize that it’s three in the morning.

Well, hell.

I sit for a moment, debating whether I should go pound on his door or wait until morning. I’m about to drive away when his front door opens, and there he is, silhouetted by the light in his entrance hall.

I hesitate, knowing I should be afraid. I know his secret now, and it’s a dangerous one.

But that’s why I came here, isn’t it? That was the fuel that had pushed me.

I draw in a breath, then get out of the car. I walk slowly toward him, my gaze never leaving him as I try hard to interpret those damnable, stoic features. But I can’t read a thing on his face.

“Text Brandy,” he says. “Tell her you’re here.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because when you come in, I’m shutting the door behind you. And I want you to know that you’re safe.”

I nod, then take out my phone, shoot her a text, then meet his eyes. “Okay?”

He nods, but I think I see disappointment on his face. And, damn me, right away I regret sending the text. Because, foolish or not, I don’t actually think he’d hurt me. I came here expecting danger, but not the physical kind.

No, the danger I’m confronting is the kind that gets you in the heart.

I’m numb enough that I don’t pay attention to the house as I follow him to a large, open living area. The television is on one of the classic movie stations, and there’s a black and white movie playing, the sound muted. There’s a coffee table in front of a sofa. An ice bucket and a half-empty decanter of whiskey sits next to a glass with a melting ice cube and just a hint of lingering brown liquor.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Damn right,” he says. “Want one?”

I nod, then sit on the couch. There’s a throw pillow, and I tug it into my lap as I curl my feet up under me.

He comes back from the bar on the far side of the room with a glass. He drops a cube in, pours a healthy shot, then hands it to me before refilling his own.

“To secrets,” he says, and, dammit, I laugh.

“Don’t,” I say, irritated with both of us. “Don’t make light of this.”

“I’m not. I swear.” He reaches for me, and I shrink back, and as I do, his face goes hard.

“Tell me,” he says. “What you know. Who you talked to.”

I consider arguing, but that’s why I’m here, right? For the confrontation? “I’m not revealing my sources,” I say. “Not even to you. But he told me that The Wolf had a son who went to work for Peter. That might not have been enough,” I continue when he says nothing. “I mean, Peter had people working for him all over town. But I also knew about Caitlyn Devline. And, well, I put the pieces together.”

I take a long swallow of my drink. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re Daniel Lopez’s son. The Wolf.”

He cups his face in his hands, obscuring most of his beard. His eyes are closed, and he nods. “This isn’t the way I wanted you to find out.”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “The way? You didn’t want me to find out at all.”

His short laugh has the ring of irony. “Well, that’s true.” He draws a breath. “How the hell do you know about my mother?”

“Turns out I saw her. You, too. I was three. And Peter went to a house in the Hollywood Hills. She answered the door.”