3 - Broken Crown, page 9
part #3 of Broken Crown Trilogy Series
“I’m not armed, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He does a slow circle, allowing me to scan the rest of his frame. When he faces me again, he asks, “We good?”
“Fine. But I’m keeping my weapon on me.”
“Your brother said the same thing to me.” He chuckles, then steps into his house, holding the door for me.
As I follow him inside, I scan my surroundings, remaining alert for any potential dangers. But I doubt I’ll find any. The place is surprisingly homey. A soft brown couch and matching love seat are nestled against one wall of the living room, a dining table just beyond it. It’s not particularly spacious, but I doubt he ever entertains anyone.
That would be too risky.
Instead, he’s made a life out here where his closest neighbor is easily several miles away.
“Would you like some tea?” He heads toward the sink and turns on the faucet, running his hands under it. “Or perhaps something a bit stronger?”
“That depends on what you’re about to share with me.”
He turns off the water and dries his hands on a dish towel. “Something stronger it is.” Removing two glasses from a cabinet, he pours a few fingers of a deep amber liquid into each one and brings them to the table, placing them on the surface.
“It’s that bad?” I pull out one of the chairs and sit down.
“I’ll let you decide for yourself.” He lowers himself across from me, bringing his glass to his lips.
I leave mine on the table for now, wanting to keep a clear head. “What did you tell my brother about the man with the scar?”
“Just that I noticed him following me a few days after I…assaulted Jameson Gates.” He rolls his eyes. “Which was a load of crap to begin with.”
“You’d mentioned that Callie had claimed to see a man with a scar following her in the days before she disappeared, too. Correct?”
Hayes nods. “As did Jack, at least according to Callie.”
I furrow my brow. “Who’s Jack?”
“Callie’s brother.”
“Callie has a brother?” I open my notebook and make a few notes.
“Had,” he corrects.
“Right. Sorry.” I meet his eyes, trying to sound apologetic. “Do you know where I can find him?”
He takes another long sip from his drink, then glances at the ceiling. “Last I checked, he’s not too far from you in Oak Lawn.”
“Oak Lawn? Isn’t that—”
“A cemetery.”
“He’s dead?”
“Died about six months before Callie disappeared. In a car accident.” He gives me a knowing look, an insinuation in his expression.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know the details. Only what the authorities claimed. Although, based on my experience, that may not be all that reliable. Even so, they said he was traveling at a high rate of speed and lost control of his vehicle when rounding a bend, which forced him to swerve off the road, down an embankment, and crash into a tree. The impact caused the car to catch on fire, according to the police.”
“So he died in a car fire?”
Hayes nods. “Sound familiar?”
“Just because Callie’s brother died in a car wreck doesn’t mean anything. People die in car accidents all the time.”
“You’re right.” He pushes back from the table, the sudden movement causing me to reach for my weapon.
“Easy.” He lifts both hands. “I’m just getting something out of the closet. A newspaper.”
I slide my hand away from the holstered pistol at my side, but keep my eyes fixed on him as he strides toward a door tucked in the corner of the kitchen. He opens it and retrieves a small box, rifling through it before pulling out a faded yellow newspaper.
“People do die in car accidents all the time.” He returns to the table, handing me the paper.
I study it, not immediately sure what I’m looking at, apart from it being the front page of the national newspaper the day of the avalanche that killed Esme’s aunt, uncle, and four of her cousins, propelling her and her brother from sixth and seventh in line to second and third.
Now first and second.
“What does the avalanche have to do—”
“This.” He turns the paper over and points to a tiny article on the bottom of the last page, a footnote of an event compared to the big headline.
I read the article and learn that a man by the name of Warren Clark, a well-known and hated paparazzo died in a car accident a few miles away from the avalanche, although it was completely unrelated to that tragic event.
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything. It says right here the police ruled it accidental after he lost control of his car.”
“I figured you might say that.” He places a second newspaper article in front of me, this one an obituary for Warren Clark.
As I read about his love for photography, I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes or scoff, considering he eventually became one of the worst types of photographers in existence. During my time in the royal guard, I’ve had my fair share of encounters with the paparazzi. They’re the worst of the worst, pushing all sorts of boundaries and barriers, putting lives at risk.
But as I reach information about his personal life and learn who his surviving family members were, I dart my eyes back toward Hayes.
“Callie and Jack Sloane were his kids?” I can’t hide the disbelief in my voice.
Or the increasing suspicion.
“It seems an awful lot of tragedy for one family. Doesn’t it? First, their father dies in a car wreck when he loses control of his vehicle. Then Jack also dies in a car wreck a few months before Callie disappears. Then, a few days after your brother said he’d look into this for me, he dies in a car fire that’s nearly identical to the one that killed Callie’s brother.”
“Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The wreck that killed Adam wasn’t ruled an accident. It was determined to be a planned, executed attack. By you.” I pin him with a glare, studying his reaction.
But like all those weeks ago, there’s no indication he’s trying to cover up anything. He doesn’t avert his gaze. Doesn’t nervously fidget with his clothes. Doesn’t repeatedly lick his lips or blink.
Instead, his stare is unwavering when he declares, “I had nothing to do with that.”
I shouldn’t believe him, but the more I learn about Callie, Jack, and their father, the more I can’t ignore all the suspicious deaths.
“Regardless, there’s no proof these car wrecks are related.” I jab my finger at the newspaper. “Like I said, the wreck that resulted in Adam’s death wasn’t ruled an accident.”
“Because there was a survivor,” Hayes insists. “Did you ever stop to think what would have happened if there hadn’t been anyone to make a statement about what she saw?”
Truthfully, I’ve never wanted to consider the possibility of Esme not surviving that horrible night. It’s difficult enough knowing her life is constantly at risk by nature of who she is. I don’t need to sit here and contemplate her death more than I already do.
“It still doesn’t prove anything.”
When Hayes parts his lips to argue once more, I hold up a hand, interrupting him.
“But I will admit it’s suspicious. Especially if Adam was looking into this, as you claim.”
“He was. And he knew I was onto something, that there was some connection between Callie’s disappearance and her brother’s death. Why else would he help me disappear when I told him about the man with a scar following me? There’s something going on here. You know there is. Which is why I’m begging you to believe me.” He pauses. “And help me.”
I stare into the distance as I ruminate over everything he shared with me. About both Callie and her brother observing a man with a scar following them before they died. How Hayes had seen that same man after publicly accusing Jameson Gates of murder. How not only Callie’s brother died in a car wreck similar to the one Adam died in, but their father also did.
There’s no smoking gun, so to speak, and each incident in isolation doesn’t raise much doubt. But when you look at everything together, it’s suspicious.
Like my brother often said. One time is a coincidence. Two times is a pattern. But three…
Well, three is reason for alarm.
And something in my gut tells me I have every reason to be alarmed right now.
Grabbing the glass off the table, I raise it to my lips and take a long sip, savoring the woodsy flavor as it travels down my throat and coats my stomach. Then I return the glass to the table and level my stare on Hayes.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” He arches a single brow.
“I’ll look into this.”
This is the last thing I should be doing right now, especially considering the risk if anyone finds out I’m not only aware that Hayes Barlow is alive, but that I’m helping him prove his innocence.
But my brother deserves justice.
I have a sneaking suspicion that justice hasn’t been served.
“Thank you,” he exhales, his expression awash with a combination of excitement and relief.
I hold my hand up. “That doesn’t mean I believe your theory. Just that I agree something doesn’t add up here. If I find you’ve lied to me or misled me in any way, I won’t hesitate to turn you in. Or put a bullet in your head myself. Do you understand?”
With an unwavering gaze, he extends his hand across the table. “Agreed.”
I stare at it for several long moments, at a crossroads. I just told him I’d help him, but this seems so much bigger than simply a handshake. Like the second I take his hand in mine, I’ll embark down a path that there’s no coming back from.
But Adam deserves the truth.
I deserve the truth.
Esme deserves the truth.
So, against my better judgment, I place my hand in his and give it a firm shake.
“Agreed.”
Part Two
Suspicion
“Pure love and suspicion cannot dwell together:
at the door where the latter enters,
the former makes its exit.”
~ Alexandre Dumas
Chapter Fourteen
Esme
I feverishly scrub my hands as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my heart pounding a thunderous rhythm in my chest, my breath coming out in short gasps. But no matter how hard I scrub, I can’t get what I just saw out of my mind.
Can’t erase the blood covering my hands.
Most nights, I typically startle awake the second the man with the scar shoots Creed.
Not tonight.
Tonight, some outside force kept me under as blood sprayed everywhere.
No matter how hard I fought against the zip ties keeping me bound, I couldn’t save Creed. All I could do was watch as his blood covered my face and hands, sobbing uncontrollably until my heart-wrenching cries woke me up.
I know it was only a dream. That it wasn’t real.
But I still feel the spray of his blood as it splattered all over me. Still see the red staining my hands.
I fear I always will.
Scalding water stings my skin as I continue scrubbing my hands clean, searing pain intensifying with each stroke. But I keep going until I can’t handle it anymore. With an anguished cry, I turn off the faucet and grab a towel. My hands tremble as I furiously wipe them. A part of me expects to see the white towel turn a crimson shade.
But it doesn’t.
Further proof it wasn’t real.
I pull my robe tighter around my body and make my way back to my bedroom, my eyes floating to the corner where Creed drew his final breath in my dream. I can’t stay here. Can’t get back in that bed. Not with the ghosts from my dream tormenting me.
Grabbing my cell off the nightstand, I send Creed a text asking if he’ll meet me at the gym. I half expect for him to be asleep and not see my message, since it’s only a little after four in the morning. Or for his message to go unread because my dream was real and he’s dead.
Thankfully, his reply arrives almost immediately, telling me he’ll be there, offering me a sliver of comfort.
When I arrive at the fitness center less than ten minutes later, he’s already here, making me think he’d been at the palace when I texted him. It should have taken him close to a half-hour to get here from his house out in the suburbs.
Quietly dropping my bag on the floor, I’m careful not to immediately alert him to my presence. His body is tense and strong as he runs on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his toned arms and back that flexes as he increases his pace, eyes staring into the distance with an unbreakable focus and determination.
God, I miss seeing that same focus and determination in his expression as he makes love to me.
But we need to be smart.
Although, every night since the opera, I’ve hoped he’d sneak into my apartment.
He hasn’t, though.
While I understand why, it doesn’t make me miss falling asleep with his arms around me any less.
“Enjoying the show?”
The deep rumble of his voice snaps me back to the present, and I let my gaze drift up to meet his, a mischievous smirk curving his lips. In a heartbeat, all the unease I felt after waking from my dream vanishes. This is what I needed. A reminder of what’s real.
A reminder that Creed’s alive.
“Do you blame me?” I slowly saunter toward him as he hits the stop button on the machine, my body heating with every step. “It is quite…” I rake my eyes down his frame, my pulse kicking up, “tempting.”
He groans, his muscles tensing as he grips the side rails of the treadmill. “You’re making this bloody difficult, Esme.” When he returns his eyes to mine, they’re dark and dangerous, holding me captive.
“You’re the one who insists we keep things platonic. If it were up to me, you’d be in my bed every night.”
“If it were up to me, I’d be in your bed every night, too.” He steps off the treadmill, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating off of him. He lifts a hand, gently grazing my hairline, smoothing back a wild strand and sending a wave of need crashing through me. “It’s taken every ounce of resolve I possess to stay away. To refrain from sneaking into your bed. You have to know I’m always thinking about you.” His lips hover tantalizingly close to mine. “Always craving you.”
“Then have me, Creed,” I beg breathlessly. “I’m yours.”
“I plan on it.” His mouth skims mine in a tease of a kiss before he pulls back. “But not yet.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing down the sexual frustration that’s become worse every day.
“I’m going to need to stock up on batteries,” I mutter under my breath.
“Batteries?” He scrunches his brows for a moment before his eyes widen in realization. Then his expression turns hungry as he leans toward me again. “Have you been getting yourself off without my permission, Esme?”
“Since when do I need your permission?” I spin from him, acting nonchalant as I make my way toward the scrimmage mats. But I can’t ignore the thrill that rushes through me when I sense him stalking close behind.
“So you have been getting yourself off?”
“You can’t expect me to go five months without an orgasm, can you?”
“No.” He exhales a long sigh. “I just hate that I can’t be the one to give them to you right now.”
“If it makes you feel better, I think about you every time,” I tease.
“I suppose I’ll have to be happy with that consolation prize for now.”
“I suppose you will.”
“But you better be ready, Esme.” He dips toward me, his voice dripping with sin. “The second I get those discharge papers, I’m coming for you. And I plan to make it so you can’t walk for a bloody week.”
A thrill rushes through me, my core clenching. I hoist myself onto my toes, my breath dancing on his lips. “I can’t wait.”
“Good.” He winks and steps back, turning into the man most people know him to be. Serious. Professional. Focused. “Should we review a few of the exercises we did last time?”
“Actually…” I clear my throat after taking a moment to compose myself. And tame my raging libido. “Can you show me how to escape zip ties?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. Just stares, his analytical eyes sweeping over me.
“I’m constantly taught how to act in hostage situations to increase my likelihood of survival.”
“And for good reason. What you do and say has a huge impact on that.”
“But it’s all premised on me waiting for help to arrive. Shouldn’t I have the skills I need to help myself?”
“Escaping a situation where you’re bound or restrained isn’t always a golden ticket. Sometimes it can cause more harm in the long run. Like you’ve learned repeatedly, making your captor believe you won’t cause any trouble can keep you alive long enough for you to be rescued.”
“Please, Creed,” I beg, my voice choked. “I don’t want to depend on someone else coming to my rescue. What if that’s not possible? Wouldn’t you want me to know how to help myself? And I’m not asking the Creed Lawson who’s a member of the royal guard.” I approach him and lift my pleading eyes pleading to his. “I’m asking the Creed Lawson who I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
He swallows hard. “You want to spend the rest of your life with me?”
“Of course I do.” My expression brightens and I place a hand on my hip. “Do you think I’d resort to five months of only battery- and hand-powered orgasms for someone I didn’t?”
He barks out a laugh, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.
God, I love that sound. What I wouldn’t give to hear it all the time. I remind myself that in just a few months, I’ll be able to.
“Okay…” he finally relents. “I’ll show you how to escape zip ties.”
