Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Stop it.”
“No.”
“It—” I hear my cell ring, and I search the ground for my purse. I find it by the rear tire of James’s car and dip to collect it. I don’t recognize the number. I also don’t get a chance to answer. James plucks it from my hand and takes the call for me. “What the hell?”
“Stand the fuck down,” he growls, connecting and answering with silence, his eyes narrowing. “Speak,” he eventually demands, getting edgier the longer the caller remains silent, and as a consequence, I do too. But then his scowl turns into a frown, and he looks at me. “Who?”
Just the fact he’s asking that means I can safely say it’s not my ex. “Who is it?” I ask, impatient.
“Frazer Cartwright,” James replies.
“What?” I question, reaching for my phone but getting nowhere near, because James moves back. “The journalist?”
“Yes, the journalist.”
What could he want? Jesus, if my father has set this up, I can’t say I won’t lose my shit again. He wants me to play the doting daughter to the respected businessman who’s running for mayor? Absolutely not. And James should not be talking to him either. I reach for my cell again, and this time I get a growl. “Give me it, James.”
“No.”
I drop my purse, lift the skirt of my dress, jump and spin, kicking my cell away from his ear. It hits the wall with force and drops to the ground, and I scoop it up. The screen is cracked, but the call is still in progress. “This is Beau Hayley speaking,” I say, my eyes on James’s fuming form. His nostrils are flaring. His jaw pulsing. I ignore it all and walk away before he blows me back when he explodes.
“Miss Hayley,” Cartwright says. “My name—”
“I know your name and who you are. What do you want?”
“Your father—”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
I cough, stilling, my stomach feeling like it’s just fallen to the ground at my feet. “What?” I whisper, turning my eyes onto James. I know they must be wide because his irritation dissipates in a second and he’s in front of me, his expression questioning. I don’t know what to do. What to say. How to react. I feel . . . empty. And despite emptiness being a constant threat in my life, this feeling is new. My cell falls away from my ear, my arm limp, my eyes searching around me as I turn on the spot, as if I might see my father here and now and confirm I didn’t just hear right.
“Beau?”
I blink, running back over the conversation I just had.
“Beau?”
He’s dead?
“Beau, for fuck’s sake.” James takes the tops of my arms and shakes me, dipping and getting in my field of vision. He recoils when I look at him, then feels down to my hand, taking my cell. He looks at the screen. Cartwright has disconnected, and I blink rapidly, seeming to come back into my body at the sight of James’s concern. I reclaim my phone and dial the only person who comes to mind, putting aside my grievance with him, and James will have to too.
“Ollie?”
“Beau,” he breathes in answer, and the second I hear his voice, I know. I just know.
“Don’t tell me you were just going to call me,” I beg anyway, praying for an explanation. “Please don’t tell me that.”
“I was just going to call you.”
“No,” I whisper.
“How do you know?” he asks.
“Cartwright called me.”
“Fuck. I’m on my way there now, Beau.”
“Where is there?”
“A hotel downtown.”
“No.” God damn it, I should have met Dad for dinner. His heart. I knew there was something wrong. But Doc checked him over. I look at James, and the moment he catches my expression, he withdraws, standing down, his ego wilting. I can’t find the words to tell him what’s wrong, and he sees my struggle.
He takes my cell and puts it to his ear. “It’s James,” he says shortly, holding on to my shoulder. “What’s going on?” He inhales in an obvious attempt to gather patience. “Now’s not the time to throw your ego around, Burrows. Whatever you were doing at Hiatus this evening, I couldn’t give a fuck. Whatever you hoped to achieve sending Beau that picture, I couldn’t give a fuck. What the fuck’s going on?”
Dead. He’s dead. He’s dead and Ollie, an FBI agent, is on his way there. A journalist has called me. It wasn’t a heart attack? A seizure? A stroke? I startle, and it’s the oddest feeling, like a switch just flipped inside of me. Like I’m going into business mode, except I am not a cop anymore, and my father isn’t any old victim. I grab my phone from James, and this time he lets me take it. “Why are you going there, Ollie?” I ask. “And why the hell are journalists calling me?”