This Man Confessed (This Man 3)

John abruptly halts, his eyebrows hovering somewhere between the tops of his shades and the top of his head. ‘Don’t back chat me, girl.’ He’s really grumpy, just when I thought he and I had reached an understanding. ‘I’ll call security and get the code sorted.’

I watch him stomp off downstairs. ‘No Cathy?’ I ask his back.

‘No Cathy.’ he confirms, heading for the penthouse phone system, but his mobile starts ringing before he makes it to the landline. ‘Yes?’ he grunts, detouring into the kitchen. ‘We’re here now. Cathy’s already left, but I’ll stay until you arrive.’ His voice is getting quieter as the distance between us grows, and I know he’s talking to Jesse. ‘Blue door, needs painting.’ John says on a purposed hush. I can still hear perfectly, though. That’s the disadvantage to having such a low, rumbling voice. He may sound menacing, but he can’t whisper for shit. ‘Lansdowne Terrace. I can’t be sure. I only got a glimpse, but if it’s not her, then she has a doppelganger.’

I’m unconsciously walking towards John’s voice. I heard that right, so it’s not like I need to gain closeness to ensure my ears aren’t failing me. But his attempt to keep this from my ear shot, coupled with the mention of Ruth Quinn’s address and the fact that John obviously recognises her, makes me need to see his face to gage his expression. I know it’s not going to be good, not when he’s talking to Jesse, which means Jesse knows Ruth Quinn, too. My blood is running colder with each step I take towards John’s low, hushed tone.

‘There’s no one there?’ John’s pacing the kitchen at the far end. ‘Ruth Quinn. I already told you. I know my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be, but I’d put my life on it. You need to call the police, not go looking for her, you crazy mother f**ker.’

My blood is ice and my body frozen in place as I watch John turn slowly and register my presence. He might be black, but he has definitely just paled. ‘Who is she?’ I ask him.

His huge chest expands and he reaches up to take his glasses off. I wish he’d have left them on because the rare sight of his eyes has just confirmed my fears. They are worried, and the big guy doesn’t do worried. ‘Jesse, you need to get your arse back here. Leave it for the police to deal with.’ John’s mobile leaves his ear, and I hear Jesse’s angry yell down the phone. I can’t decipher what he’s saying, but his frustrated shout says a thousand words. The mention of police intervention can’t be good, either.

‘Who is she?’ I grate, my breathing starting to accelerate. I’m anxious and panicking, but I don’t know what about.

John sighs, defeated, yet he still doesn’t answer, instead turning his back on me. ‘It’s too late. She’s standing right here. You’d better come home.’

I hear an angry yell, and I think I catch the sound of something hitting something, like a fist on a front door—a worn, blue front door. I can feel my patience fraying. My lack of knowledge in something that I’m sensing I should know about is re-heating my frozen veins.

John hands me the phone, and I don’t delay swiping it from his hand. ‘Who is she?’ I remain calm and clear, but if I don’t get an answer, then I’ll be raging very quickly. And I already know that it’ll be the blood pressure raising kind of furious.

He’s heaving down the phone, his purposeful, thumping footsteps evident in the background. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘What do you mean?’ I’m shouting. He didn’t answer, not satisfactorily. He knows who Ruth Quinn is.

‘I’m on my way home. We’ll talk.’

‘No, tell me!’

‘Ava, I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it’s her.’ he says, the screeching of tyres making me wince. That may be so, but John’s inability to whisper has screwed that plan up. ‘I’ll explain when I can sit you down.’

‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’ I don’t know why I’m asking. He wants to sit me down—not a good sign. There are no good signs, in fact. Even the big guy looks all concerned by what’s transpiring.

‘Baby, please, I need to see you.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’ I remind him quietly, resting myself on a barstool. ‘What else could you possibly have to tell me, Jesse?’

‘I’ll be home soon.’

‘Will it make me run?’

‘I’ll be home soon.’ he repeats and hangs up, leaving me with John’s phone suspended limply by my cheek and a stomach churning with trepidation. I almost want to run right now. Uncertainty, mixed with incredible fear, is pushing me to run away, but not to escape him because the thought of being without him sears painfully on every fragment of my being. But there’s an aching pit, deep in my stomach that’s telling me I should protect myself from whatever is about to impact on my life. Our life.

The penthouse phone screeches, making me jump, and John’s thumps his heavy feet across the kitchen, now with his glasses back in place. I won’t waste my breath trying to extract any information from him, even though he has the information that I need.

He returns to the kitchen, looking too fraught for such a menacing man. Now I’m really worried. ‘I’m needed downstairs. You’ll lock the door behind me and you won’t answer it unless I call you to say it’s me. Where’s your phone?’

‘What’s happening?’ I stand, starting to shake.