Page 90 of Callous Shot

There was no way he could be faking it. Sure, his dick could get hard for me whether he liked me or not. But if he still actively hated me, then what about his concern? Those looks he gave me? His smile, so fucking soft and fond? The way he’d confided in me? But regardless, Ryker was correct—his family was a big sticking point, and we needed to talk about it all.

I used my handy little lockpicking set to let myself into Lincoln’s apartment—well, technically, it belonged to Sid, but I knew he wouldn’t mind me borrowing it for a good cause. I was a little surprised and concerned that the security on the internal doors wasn’t better, considering how much money Whelford Uni was rolling in, and I made a mental note to research security measures for my boyf—my fuck buddy.

Flipping on the light, I padded through the silent apartment to Lincoln’s bedroom area.

My gaze caught on his desk.

I stopped dead.

Oh, fuck.

39

LINCOLN

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I inserted my key into the lock of my apartment entrance door. I twisted it, wincing at the click that seemed so much louder than usual, and held my breath as I pushed the door open.

Everything was silent and still.

Too still.

I threaded my keys through my fingers in an attempt at a makeshift weapon. It was better than nothing, especially if whoever was in my apartment was armed. Brute strength only did so much against a sharp blade, or even worse, a bullet.

Creeping through the living area, I paused at the threshold of my bedroom, peering into the darkness.

There was a sudden creak, and my entire body jerked. Then I realised it was the ancient pipes, the timer on the central heating system kicking in.

Still holding my keys, I dived through the archway and slammed my hand over the light switch.

I was alone, and my room…

My room was completely wrecked.

My bed was upended, my duvet and pillows strewn over the floor. One of my lamps lay on its side with the shade dented, the broken glass of the bulb glittering on the carpet. My drawers were pulled out, the contents thrown haphazardly around the place.

I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest as I took in the damage, but when my gaze swung to my desk, it stopped.

Everything stopped.

The printouts from the files I’d spent all night combing through were gone. I crossed the room on trembling legs, reaching out to my laptop mouse. When I nudged it, my screen came to life.

There was my document as I’d left it earlier today, ready to print and put together with the evidence I’d gathered. The document I’d begun after my fight with Daniel in the yard, the day I’d blocked him.

His name stood out in sharp relief, right at the top of my list.

1. DANIEL FUCKING HOYTON

My gaze dropped lower, to the following two points, each just as incriminating.

2. OPERATION FOXGLOVE—who are they investigating?

3. DAD—wants info on the Hoytons I can feed to Mike

Over the top, on the screen itself, a message was scrawled in Sharpie, thick, black capital letters that made my blood run cold and my eyes fill with tears.

YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD TO ME, BELLINGHAM

“Let me in!” I pounded on the hockey house door over and over again. “Dan! I know you’re in there!”