“Sweetheart—”
“What?” I cut him off before he gets any farther.
Jesus. Sweetheart? Was that a term of endearment or pity?
Why do I care?
I don’t have time to ponder the insane intricacies of a complicated relationship with a man I’m still supposed to hate. I need to find Millie.
“You need to tell me where to go,” he finishes. Talk about anti-climactic.
“Abby’s place is number two twenty-nine.” I point to my sister’s apartment. “We just need to go up to the third floor. Mrs. Gamlin lives right above her.”
He nods, leading the way. Our hands are still locked together.
That’s probably for the best because I’m not sure I’d have the strength or wits to move on my own. My chest hurts. It’s hard to walk.
He drops my hand and we stop.
Dread becomes me.
Shit. Maybe he’s realized this isn’t his problem. I look up at him helplessly.
Just in time to feel his arms close around me, pulling me into his chest, this kind, fortifying hug I never would’ve guessed Nicholas Brandt had in him.
“I’m figuring this out as we go. I can’t tell you what happens next, but you’re going to quit worrying now, okay?”
How do I just shut off panicking over the only family I have?
“But—”
“Reese. I’ve got this. Let’s go.”
I follow, trying not to sink in my own confusion.
Why is Nick the Prick being so nice? Why is my sister locked up? And what kind of life will Millie have now if Abby can’t get out? Why is everything falling apart?
There’s a silver lining. When I’m confused, I get angry, and when I get angry, I get determined.
I use the spare key Abby gave me for the front entrance. Nick must notice because the next time I glance at him, he’s wearing that amused smirk I can’t decide whether I despise or secretly love.
“See? You’re okay, Halle. Let’s go rescue your sidekick.” He heads inside and leads me upstairs.
His voice is so disarming. He’s brushed my temporary insanity off as a joke—no big deal—and it’s working. I’m moving again.
There’s a thump behind Abby’s door just before we stop by her place on the second floor.
“Nick! Someone’s in Abby’s apartment.”
“Why do you think that?” he asks.
“You didn’t hear? Something just made a huge thump in there.”
He shrugs. “Probably a cat.”
“She doesn’t have a cat. Why would you assume that?”
“Kids are usually begging for animals. Hold on.”
I don’t say anything. I look closer, and notice a small scrap of yellow crime scene tape on the doorframe.
“Oh, crap. Of course. They had to search this place...are they not finished?” I wonder.
“It’d be blocked off if it were still an active investigation. They don’t dick around with that—I’ve seen enough crime shows to know,” he tells me.
Shrugging, I reach for the spare keyset again, instead of taking the next flight of stairs to Mrs. Gamlin’s. The strong hand cupped around mine tightens, tugging me back.
I glance at Nick.
“I’ll go first,” he tells me sternly. “You stay back until I give the all clear.”
I snort. “Dude. It’s my sister’s apartment.”
“And we know it wasn’t your sister thudding around in there and someone took the crime tape down. Let me scope it out,” he growls, his jaw set.
“You’re not usually so bossy.”
“You don’t usually take orders well,” he tosses back.
I blink, shaking my head.
“If you think it’s something bad, maybe we should just get Millie and go. I just want to know who’s in Abby’s apartment.”
“Only one way to find out, and I’m not letting anything happen to you. Stand the hell back.”
We take the five steps to Abby’s apartment before I pass Nick the key.
He puts his hand on the doorknob and looks back at me. “Back up. Get to the side.”
“Why?”
He rolls his eyes. “Do you have to question everything? So no one sees you.”
I can’t argue with that, and I also know when to shut my yap.
He turns the doorknob a couple times before pressing his ear against the thick wood. “It’s locked. Sounds like the TV’s on.”
“Should we just go to Mrs. Gamlin’s?”
“If that’s what you want.” He pulls out a pocket knife. “But since I’ve come this far...”
I stare at the knife while he holds up the key with his other hand. It’s small, but it’s kind of badass, him wanting to protect me like this.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a billionaire with a pocketknife,” I whisper.
He gives me a disarming glare. “It’s a souped-up Swiss Army knife. Sometimes you need more than a bottle opener.”
Right.
Before he can ready his war face—or even turn the key—the front door swings open. I jump so hard I nearly hit the ceiling.
Mrs. Gamlin wears a black gown and has a matching scarf tied around her white coils. “Can I help you with something? You’re scaring the bejeezus out of the kid!”
Nick raises a brow.
I move from the side of the railing, trying to put my heart back in my chest.