And I Love You the Most (This Love Hurts 3)

If only Delilah would knock on my door. If only it was all a misunderstanding.

I’m silent but swift as I rise, eager to find out if her sister knows anything at all. I’ve read through the reports a dozen times. She gave her statement and, in those lines, she didn’t know a damn thing that could help. If she does, she isn’t aware of it. The details she doesn’t think are important are the ones I’m after. The ones she didn’t think were worth mentioning.

Her small hand is fisted and prepared for another rap against the door, her lips parted and ready to call out once again when I open the hotel door.

Her deep brown eyes widen at the sight of me, and her mouth slams shut. It’s only then I realize I must appear disheveled at best. Unhinged at worst.

“I … I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t. The answer stays glued to my tongue. I still haven’t slept. It’s going on thirty-six hours since Delilah was taken, and I’m still wearing the wrinkled trousers and the shirt I was in when I got the call.

Cadence’s gaze travels lower, noting that I’m not in sleepwear.

Tightening her cream wool coat around her waist, she straightens her shoulders to state, although it’s more of a plea, “I need to talk to you.”

“Come in.” My answer is raspy and I find myself clearing my throat as I open the door wider for her.

She’s halfway into the room, staring between the bed and the chair in the corner when I start by saying, “I read your statement. Have you remembered anything since you gave it?”

I hesitate to do it, but I lock the door before offering her a weak smile. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“No, please.” Inhaling deeply, she drops her coat to the middle of the bed and then takes a seat on the edge. “After what happened,” she says and her voice drifts off, leaving the statement unfinished.

“Right.” I give her a small nod and resume my place in the corner chair, turning it to face her. “Have you remembered anything?”

“I came to ask you questions,” Cadence blurts out, nearly interrupting my question, a hint of skepticism in her tone. After a second, she huffs a humorless laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. With a frown pulling down the corners of her lips, she wipes the edges of her eyes with the sleeve of her deep ruby designer sweater. “Sorry,” she says. “I just … I have questions.”

Staring back at Delilah’s sister, seeing every resemblance I can find in the woman across the room, I offer her another smile, although this one is weaker. “You remind me of her.”

Cadence’s smile is tight but genuine, and dampened by the pain in her eyes. “So you remember me, don’t you?”

With a nod, I answer, “I do. Cadence Jones, Delilah’s sister. We met years ago.”

“I know you were seeing her.” Her statement catches me off guard.

“I didn’t know she told anyone.”

“It was all over the papers,” she confesses. “I read about your so-called affair. Pair that with her limited free time … well I assumed she’d met someone.”

I can only nod, remembering the beginning of … whatever we were. With a tight throat, sadness rocks through me.

“So I have questions.”

“Of course you do,” I respond lowly.

“And I’m sure you know … statistically speaking, when someone is in a relationship and taken or—”

“I know the partner is the first suspect. Lover or husband.” My tone turns colder as Marcus comes to mind. Clearing my throat again, I lean forward and reach for the tumbler on the table, only to find the whiskey’s been drained from it. “I love her and I’m going to find her,” I say with every intention of upholding my vow until I glance down, from Cadence’s hopeful gaze, to the laptop screen that’s turned black.

Hopelessness is a traitor. “Would you like anything to drink?”

Cadence only shakes her head, not a hair out of place in her bun as she does so. It’s at odds with her face, completely devoid of makeup other than traces of mascara around her eyes, which only adds to the darkness beneath them.

“It’s the second day.” Her voice cracks and it resonates in my chest. “Please tell me you know something.” Her plea morphs into a whisper, the almost palpable sadness overwhelming it.

The only words I have for her are, “I’m sorry,” but I refuse to say them. It’s what I’ve told the loved ones of bodies I’ve found, all the men, women and children who weren’t found alive. I can’t do that to Delilah. I won’t utter a statement that echoes defeat.

“We’re going to find her.”

“I was hoping you would tell me it wasn’t real.” Cadence’s expression crumples. “After my mother’s body--” her statement is left unfinished, but I know what she’s referring to. The news covered it and Evan sent me the report. Her death was quick.