Stolen Hearts (Hearts 1)

“Not important?” I cried. “Am I still sleeping? Is this like . . . a stress dream?”

“Between your husband being murdered and the fire at your house; I fear that someone might be trying to hurt you, Poppy,” Caroline said.

“But why?” I was literally NO ONE. Hurting me, killing me would have no impact on the world. None whatsoever.

Caroline pushed her wine glass away and grabbed my hand. “Your sister—”

I jerked my hand back. “No.”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought it.”

“She wouldn’t hurt me. Zilla wouldn’t hurt me. I mean, killing the senator, maybe . . . if she was in one of her manic phases. But covering it up like that? She doesn’t have that kind of power.” I stood up. Frantic and strange in my body. Two families had that kind of power – the Morellis and the Constantines. “How do they know he was killed by someone else? The coroner you hired, what did he find out that the other guy lied about?”

“The angle of the bullet through his skull.” Caroline said. “No residue on his hands.”

“This can’t be true.”

“It’s true, Poppy,” Ronan said. I whirled to face him, and his stillness was not threatening in this moment. It was a comfort. A rock in a storm. “It’s true.”

“What about the medical records. The cancer?”

“The doctor who signed the paperwork is gone.”

“Gone?”

“He’s just . . . vanished.”

Oh god. Officially this was too much. Officially, the room and my world were spinning.

“So,” I said. “What you’re saying is that someone killed my husband. Made it look like a suicide. Bribed a doctor?” I shrugged, manically. “Killed a doctor? And the coroner was somehow in on it, and now they want to kill me?”

“Please, calm down, Poppy,” Caroline said.

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“Of course,” she said calmly. “Of course you are supposed to believe me. I have only ever had your best interests at heart.”

“Which is why you married me off to Jim. Right? All part of my best interests?”

It was like the room cracked. Or my brain? Was it my brain cracking?

Caroline sat up straight. God, she looked like a queen. Regal even in her bare feet. No one ever doubted her.

Except Zilla and now, apparently me.

“He was looking for a wife, and you needed money,” Caroline said.

“A wife. Hilarious. He was looking for someone he could hurt with impunity. And you gave me to him.”

“You sound like your sister,” Caroline said.

“Maybe I should have listened to her more.”

“Right. When she was restrained at Belhaven. After she burned down your childhood home. After she went after that priest? Who made all that go away? Hmmm?” Caroline asked. “When you talk about listening to your sister, who kept her out of jail?”

“You did,” I whispered. And I let my gratitude for that carry me into whatever she asked of me. I looked at Ronan who was standing to the side, arms at his sides like he could grab me and wrap me in a strait jacket if he needed to. “I’m going to go home,” I said.

“I know you’re upset,” Caroline said. “But I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I know. It is a good idea. It’s a great idea. It is in fact the only idea.” I walked out of the kitchen towards the front door, walking down hallways past rooms filled with bad memories. “Where is my phone? I just need my phone and maybe some shoes?”

“Poppy, you are being ridiculous,” Caroline said.

Sure. Yep. Probably. But I wasn’t exactly sure what else there was to do in this situation. I needed some distance. A chance to think. A goddamn cup of coffee.

Denise arrived from some dark hallway. “Do you need some help?” she asked, her eyes taking in everyone.

“Shoes, Denise. Any shoes will do. And my phone.”

Denise looked back at Caroline as if to get permission. “Look at me!” I barked. “Talk to me. I want my shoes and my phone.”

Denise vanished for a second and came back with the boots I’d worn last night and my phone, which was of course dead. “The clothes are still in the wash. They smelled of smoke.”

“This is great.” I shoved my feet in the boots and grabbed my dead phone from her. “Perfect.”

I was out the front door before I realized Ronan was behind me. “I don’t need—”

“I’m driving you,” he said.

“I—”

“I’m driving you.”

We walked down the front walk, around to the side of the house where there were a few cars parked. One of them a sleek black sports car. “Get in.”

“Are you mad?”

“Get in the car.”

I slipped in the passenger side as Ronan got in behind the wheel. The engine started with a roar, and we took off so fast my head hit the headrest.

“Why are you mad?” I cried.

“I’m not.” He shifted gears like we were in some kind of car race, and I grabbed the seat belt, slipping it over my body.