“Are you for real?” I ask, standing abruptly, sending the metal chair flying back. “You’ve dragged me here to ask if my boyfriend broke my fucking arm? Is that what you think I’ve become? That weak? That desperate?”
“I looked into him, Beau.” Ollie stops at the edge of the table, looking down at me. My heart goes from double time to triple time. “James Kelly didn’t exist until five years ago.”
I stare at my ex, flummoxed. “You had no right to do that.” I’m not shocked by his declaration. I’m simply pissed off that they’ve taken it upon themselves to pry. Deep down, I had a feeling their search would either turn up nothing or turn up a record longer than my broken fucking arm.
“You were born in England.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been in the States?”
“Five years.”
Five years. And his company has probably only been in existence that long too.
“He’s not who he says he is,” Nath continues. “He’s deceiving you, Beau. Lying to you. Why would he do that?”
“Then who is he?” I spit, furious, my mouth firing words before my brain can engage. “If he’s not who he says he is, who the fuck is he?” I need to shut the hell up.
“Probably a guy who got sent down for domestic abuse and legally changed his name when he got out.”
I drop my head back, looking at the sky, gathering patience. How many times have I got to tell them? “James did not break my arm.” I breathe in deeply, all out of patience, and calmly push my chair in. Nath won’t find anything on my mom. I know that now. And Ollie? He’s just pushed me too far. “I don’t want to see you again.” I look at Ollie. “Either of you.”
“Beau, come on,” Ollie pleads, reaching for me. “We’re just looking out for you. You’re vulnerable.”
“No!” I yell, shrugging him off and storming away. “Just leave me alone.” I’m dizzy with rage, confusion, my head about to detonate.
When I round the corner, I come to a stop, resting against the wall, trying to get my labored breathing under control. I turn on my phone. Endless missed calls and a text from Dexter, asking where I am. I close my eyes. “I don’t know where I am,” I say to myself. “Or where the fuck I’m going.”
I exhale. It’s long and defeated, as my thumb works across the screen, telling him I’m okay. That I’m on my way. Then I turn it off again.
There are no records on James. He didn’t exist until five years ago.
Excessive security.
His other name.
The opera house.
In too deep.
Enigma.
54
JAMES
Goldie can’t find her. Otto can’t find her.
I can’t fucking find her.
Goldie is watching Beau’s uncle’s place. Nothing. I’ve wandered the supermarket for an hour. Nothing.
I pace my office, up and down, the screens drowning the space with a bright rainbow of lights. I haven’t even the will to amend the status of my latest hits.
“Fuck, Beau, where the fuck are you, baby?” I rake a hand through my hair as I slump into my chair and close my eyes, wracking my brain. I see her mother. The sheer determination on her face. Her voice down the line whenever we spoke. Her words, words of conviction.
I will find you. I will finish you.
I snap my eyes open quickly, and I’m out of my chair like a rocket, sprinting down to get my keys. I’m out the door fast and soon speeding toward the old church.
When I pull up in the lay-by on the lane toward the church, the biggest, blackest cloud is creeping over, casting a shadow over the graveyard. The sky looks like it could open at any moment. I see a cab sitting in the lane, the driver reading a paper. My phone pings an alert, and I open it, seeing Beau’s turned her phone back on. She wants me to find her. “Already did, baby,” I murmur, getting out, not bothering to check her exact location. I can smell her, her fragrance mixing with the heavy, clean scent of the impending rain. I make my way down the paved pathway, the ancient slabs cracked and uneven, not a single stone in one piece. The metal gate into the graveyard is twisted and rusty. It’s sad and dreary. Everything a graveyard should be.
I let myself through and find her immediately, sitting before a gray marble headstone, her arm wrapped around her knees, hugging them. Weaving around the graves, crushing the long grass with my boots as I go, I keep my eyes on the blurry words of Beau’s mother’s headstone until the inscription is clear. I come to a stop and read it. Three times. And that day two years ago is as real now.
“Tell me who you are,” Beau says quietly, not looking back.