Keeping my eyes on the road, I can’t study the final two photos, but quick glances tell me they’re more of Trace in my sitting room, only these are from a different camera angle. An angle that shows Cole’s motorcycle parked in my dining room.
That narrows down the date. It happened sometime after Cole left and a year before I met Trace. In that two-year time frame I was living alone and clueless as fuck.
As I put away the last two photos, the second camera angle raises more questions.
Was there a cameraman taking the pictures? Or were there multiple cameras hidden in my house? Are there cameras in my house now? If so, how did they get there?
For the next ten minutes, I keep driving, my mind spinning and my entire body painfully stiff and trembling. I have no idea where I’m going. I just can’t go home, and the only two people I can talk to about this are the last two people I trust right now.
Did Cole cheat on me? Or did he fuck that woman before we met? What about Trace? Did he murder a good man? A husband and father with a family that mourns him? Or was the man there to hurt me?
No matter the answers, I’ve been lied to. Deceived. Again. How much more are they keeping from me?
I don’t know where to go, but my subconscious seems to have made the decision for me. The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel looms two blocks ahead, its steel architecture glittering in the sunlight.
I’m supposed to be at work, but that won’t be happening. I park the car and head straight to Trace’s private elevator, hugging the envelope to my chest. I haven’t tried to enter my passcode since the night I drew him out into the sleeting rain.
Hunched over and shaking uncontrollably, I enter the code.
The doors open instantly.
I’m too freaked out to feel relief. I probably look it, too, like a trembling, wild-eyed nutjob with tears splotching my face. Good thing I’m all out of fucks to give.
I hit 30 on the panel of buttons, assuming he’s working. When I arrive on the office floor, I cross the lobby, turn down the hall, pass the receptionist desk, and reach for the door to his office.
“Miss Angelo, wait.” Marilyn, his assistant, rises from her chair. “You can’t go in there. He’s on a call.”
I swing open the door and shut it behind me.
Trace sits behind his desk, typing on his laptop with a phone at his ear. He looks up, scans my trembling, rigid posture, and meets my eyes.
“I’ll call you back.” He hangs up the phone and continues to stare at me, his scowl creasing with worry.
If I open my mouth, I’m going to burst into tears. So I drag my feet across the room and drop the envelope on his desk.
He glares at it like it’s going to bite him. Then his gaze returns to mine, questioning, sharpening. A muscle twitches in his cheek, his hand hesitant as he reaches for the envelope. After an agonizing moment, he lifts it and slides out the photos.
The pictures of Cole are on top. Trace examines each one, his scowl emotionless. But he lifts his eyes repeatedly, checking my reaction. When he flips to the images of the dead man, he stiffens, and his nostrils go wide.
His gaze snaps to mine, and he presses a finger to his lips, wordlessly telling me not to talk.
His entire demeanor changes in a blink. His breaths come hard and fast as he snatches his phone and types something on the screen.
Who is he texting?
Without speaking, he gathers the photos, stacking them and returning them to the envelope.
Is he worried about someone listening? The FBI? He committed a crime, and now I’m wondering if by coming here, it makes me an accomplice.
Or is a different threat putting him on alert? Whoever delivered those pictures is probably not working on the right side of the law.
My scalp tingles, and my muscles are so stiff I struggle to unlock my joints. He darts around the desk, grips my shaking fingers, and guides me toward the door.
He touches his lips again, reminding me to remain silent. Then he leads me out with a hand on my back.
Where are we going? Maybe I shouldn’t follow him. He’s a killer and a liar and hell knows what else? My trust in him is shattered. Except I know, without a shadow of a doubt, if I’m in danger, he’ll protect me.
He ushers me into the elevator and presses the button for his penthouse. Maybe it’s safe to talk there?
When we arrive on the 31st floor, he clasps my hand and pulls me into the open kitchen. Shoulders stiff and back straight with tension, he scans my body with narrowed hawk eyes.
I wrap my arms around myself. “What are—?”
His hand flies to my mouth, his fingers pressing hard as he shakes his head.
Still no talking? What the unholy fuck? I glance around at the kitchen and living room. Does he think his penthouse is bugged?
He reaches for my coat, and I watch in frozen horror as he slides his fingers along the seams, checking the pockets and freeing the buttons to examine the liner.