“What do you want me to do?”
“The fact this person addressed her as Durango and not Brandon, her stage name, has her scared. It means he or she knows the real Toni.” He slips the letter back in his pocket and grabs a manila envelope. I watch as he drops the photographs in it and places it under a paperweight on the desk. “She’s afraid for her little girl.”
“How old is the child?”
“Almost a year.”
Same age as Dex. “I guess I understand how she feels.”
Patrick nods. “She’s tough, but you know how it is. Hit somebody where they live, and you can pretty much get whatever you want.”
Inhaling deeply, I nod and start for the door. “Speaking of, I need to get home. Let me know as soon as you hear from her. Tell her not to be afraid. We’ll take care of this.”
Chapter 4: The Last Straw
Melissa
Derek is at the kitchen table when I open the door to my beach cottage. The images of Sloan’s gruesome, broken neck churn my stomach. I’m still holding one of the prints.
“Melissa?” He crosses the room as I step inside. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
I lift the photograph, holding it so he can see what I know. “Dex knocked this off your desk.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t speak. I don’t need him to. I remember the night he’d told me he could kill a man with his bare hands. We’d been discussing “special skills.” He’d said he wasn’t proud of that one.
“You did this.” My voice is so quiet, yet it feels like the loudest thing in the room.
His eyes close, and for the second time, my head grows suddenly light. Only this time, the whiteness overpowers me. I’m going down, until I’m scooped up in his strong arms at once.
“Hang on,” he soothes, carrying me to the sofa and gently helping me sit. “Stay here. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“No!” I catch his arm and hold him. “I need you to tell me if it’s true.”
With a deep sigh, he lowers himself beside me. My head hurts. Pressure is behind my eyes, and my limbs are weak.
His voice
is quiet, resigned when he answers me. “It’s true.”
“Oh, god, Derek!” Tears flood my eyes, and my whole body is trembling now. “Oh, god!”
The tears spill down my cheeks, and he gathers me to his chest. I can only clutch his shoulders. Breathing is hard. Thinking is hard—past the one thought of What now? Repeating over and over in my brain. My worst nightmare is coming true.
“I’m sorry.” His voice remains quiet, and he continues holding me, softly running his hand up and down my back.
“When were you going to tell me?” My whisper is accusatory. I’m angry, but more than anything, I’m terrified of losing him.
I feel him take a deep breath, his hold on me loosens as his arms lower. “In the beginning? Never.”
Pushing back, I catch his eyes. “You were never going to tell me you killed a man?”
“I didn’t want you burdened with that knowledge.” His tone is closed, but his steel blue eyes tell me he’s not saying everything.
All the shock and fear that had just been swirling through me binds together in a fist of anger in my chest. I push to my feet, adrenaline driving me now. “You didn’t want me to be burdened with the knowledge that you’ve committed a crime? That my ex-husband is dead at your hands?”
I’m pacing the living room, but he’s not moving. His eyes follow me.
Finally, I stop and shout at him. “How could you keep this from me?”