The Broken Protector (Dark Hearts of Redhaven Book 1)
The Broken Protector: Chapter 19

Sleep? Impossible.

Every time I try, I just see him again.

Roger.

Spread open like a rack of lamb, his vacant eyes cutting and sharp.

Like he blames me.

Oh, I know it’s not my fault.

He never should have stalked me to this cursed little town.

If he’d just gotten the help he needed and stayed in New York and called me a bitch to his drinking buddies like a normal ex-boyfriend, he’d still be alive.

I sigh.

What’s really keeping me awake is the great unknown.

Wondering who would kill my stalker ex-boyfriend just to send a message.

Who could possibly be that focused on me?

The walls of The Rookery feel too thin tonight, even though it should be the safest place in town. But even knowing the chief of police and his wife are close doesn’t help.

I’ve never been more alone, and when you’re alone, you can’t feel totally safe.

I want Lucas so bad it kills me.

I miss his heat, his wall of a body just waiting for me to curl up, to burrow into him, to hide against, but my head’s gotten him all tangled up in this mess.

My feelings are all spikes, ready to stick anything that gets too close.

If I saw him right now, I don’t know if I’d kiss him or scream until I throw out my voice.

But Lucas isn’t some stalker freak killer making my life a living hell.

My problems with him are mostly me.

I’ll even admit it’s not totally about Emma or the fact that he lied.

Not about some vague promise that was never fully broken, just delayed for the purpose of the investigation.

The truth? I’m afraid.

I’m a bitter, screwed up little mess who’ll replace any excuse to push away a man who could be too good for me. We were getting too real, and he was so close to rewriting the stain of my past.

Deep down, that terrified me.

So I found my excuse to run without realizing it until later.

Now, I glance at the clock with my heart hanging low.

It’s after eleven p.m. Seven more hours alone.

I can’t stand it.

I snatch up my phone and stare at the screen with his last text.

Lucas: Can we talk without going nuclear on each other, darlin’? Give me five minutes.

God, I almost do it.

I almost mash the call button and reach for what I really want in that scared, flighty little hollow in my heart buried under so much grief.

I almost call out to him.

It’s not pride that stops me.

It’s the fact that I don’t even know what I’d say. How to explain why everything just spiraled when my feelings are so tangled into Gordian knots I can’t begin to sort them out.

Call it a delayed trauma reaction or something.

And that was before I found my creepy ex-boyfriend mangled and dead on my roof.

Roger was warped and so sick he might’ve hurt me, but he still didn’t deserve that.

He should’ve had his day in a courtroom like anyone else.

Just like Lucas Graves doesn’t deserve my clumsy flailing around now.

So I’ll talk to him.

After I get myself sorted out and I can replace the right words, we’ll sit down for a heart-to-heart chat.

When I stab at my contacts with tears in my eyes, it’s not Lucas’ contact I’m mashing with my fingertip.

It’s my mother’s.

Mitsi Clarendon is the kind of night owl you can only be when you spend twenty years running your own all-night diner, so I’m not worried about waking her up.

“Delilah!” she chirps as bright and cheery as ever. “I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting to hear from you. One text when you arrived? Really.” She clucks her tongue in mock disapproval, but her voice is overflowing with warm laughter. “How are things with your new job? With everything? Are you all settled in?”

“Oh, Mom. You don’t even want to know. Mom, I—” That word stops me every time. It’s been years, and it still gives me that little hitch of breath, having someone to call Mom. I exhale and start over again. “Mom, I think I really fucked up.”

“What’s the matter? Is the job not working out, love?”

“The job is the only thing that’s working out.” I roll over and bury my face in the plush pillow of my borrowed—well, technically free—bed, mumbling around it. “Don’t get me wrong. The kids are great. The school is nice. I love the staff, and they seem to like me. But I think I accidentally stumbled on a portal to hell. Redhaven is one bad never-ending thriller film.”

“Really? But it has such wonderful reviews!”

I can’t help smiling. My mother loves her nosy little neighborhood apps like NextDoorish that let her snoop around on the neighbors.

“Some things don’t get reported to the police or NextDoorish,” I say dryly, propping my chin up and staring out the window. I can’t tell her everything that’s been happening.

She’d explode into Mom-bits with worry.

The woman does that.

It’s like she’s trying to cram eighteen years of missed parenting in all at once.

So I divert with a question. “What do you put on a police report for a broken heart, anyway?”

“Oh, Lilah.” She clucks her tongue in sympathy. “You always attract the worst men. Stop that.”

I laugh.

“That’s the hell of it, Mom. This time… this time I actually got a good one, and I went and screwed everything up. I just—I can’t let myself trust him enough to be genuine. He made mistakes too, but I wouldn’t even give him a chance to apologize.” It hurts to say it, somewhere down low in this heavy place in my chest. “I was an asshole. I let my temper come out to play and I hurt him. Bad.”

“Are we talking unfixable?”

“Maybe?”

“You aren’t telling me everything, baby girl. What else?”

There it is. There’s the mom voice that always makes me smile.

I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. “…he wants to talk. He’s tried. Even after I went off hard enough to level the whole town, he actually wants to talk to me.”

“Then why don’t you let him?” Mom asks innocently.

Oof.

“What do I say?” I sputter. “We’ve got issues, Mom. We bang heads a lot and then my gasket blows. Why would anyone want me when I’m just this porcupine?”

I can’t bring myself to use the cactus analogy when that belongs to him.

“Because I want you around all the time,” she points out softly. “And I’m quite familiar with your temper after watching you nearly pin a diner’s hand to a table with a fork for smacking your bottom.”

I can tell she’s trying not to laugh at the memory.

My face turns into a tomato.

I’m just trying not to crawl under the bed from sheer mortification.

“Lilah,” she continues gently. “If I’ve seen your temper and still love you, it’s because that fire is part of you. I know you’re always working to rein it in. It’s part of what makes you so strong. If this man’s any good, don’t you think he can see it, too?”

“I don’t know.” My heart rattles. “Mom, I don’t even know if it’s love with him.”

“I think you do,” she whispers confidently.

Crap, she’s right.

She always is.

Like it or not, I’m in flipping love with Lucas Graves.

And I don’t know how to handle love without burning it to ashes.

My eyes sting with panic.

I press my fingers to my lips, steadying my voice. “I… I gotta go. I have to teach in the morning and it’s crazy late. Those little monsters wear me out.”

“But they love you anyway, don’t they?” She laughs. “So do I, sweet girl. You be safe out there, all right? And call if you need anything else.”

“I will.”

Yeah, right.

Real safe with dead bodies everywhere.

I didn’t even hint at why Redhaven still might eat me alive.

But I’m smiling anyway, and I don’t want to worry her this late.

“Love you too, Mom. Good night.”

“Good night, sweet girl.”

The call ends and I sprawl out sideways across the bed, staring at the room with my heart in a knot.

That was helpful and entirely awful, making me look at things I’ve been refusing to admit.

Like the fact that I love Lucas Graves.

Just what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

By my lunch break the next day, I’m still as confused as ever about Lucas and turning some things over about Emma.

About Roger.

About this gory mess, and why it seems to revolve around me.

I nibble at the little finger sandwiches I threw together this morning, scrolling my phone as I search Emma Santos Instagram model.

The results immediately bring me to her Insta account.

Only, it’s been taken over by someone else.

Her mother, I think, and all of the most recent posts are—oh.

My heart can’t take this.

All of the most recent posts are desperate pleas for any information on her whereabouts. She’s asking for recent sightings, tips, offering a cash reward that sounds like it’s all they can afford.

God.

Emma looked so much like her mother, Marina Santos. She’s a tall, slim woman with a pointed chin and a heart-shaped face and soft brown eyes that look as liquid as Emma’s probably did when she was alive.

In one photo, she’s holding a huge piece of poster board with a blown-up color photograph of a smiling, laughing Emma taped to it. Below it, big blocky Magic Marker letters are colored in with a phone number and email listed.

Have you seen my daughter?

Help my baby girl come home.

Wrecked.

I’m about to start bawling right here in the break room at school.

I linger on the number, temptation itching in my fingers, but I make myself scroll past to older photos. Emma’s photos aren’t the sort of staged perfection you’d expect from Instagram influencers, but instead they’re candid shots of her just living life.

Always in motion, this vibrant thing who always seems like she’s mid-laugh, mid-turn, never quite holding still, her eyes bright and sparkling clear.

She was so beautiful.

So full of life.

It’s hard for me to think a girl like her would have overdosed so easily. The patterns in her posts don’t reflect that at all.

Fitness, lifestyle, healthy foods, taking pleasure in so many simple things. I can’t see where she’d even be a drug fiend, but I guess you never know what demons people are really fighting behind closed doors.

I keep scrolling, unsure what I’m looking for.

It’s not like she’s going to have an old photo posted with any of the Arrendells—let alone Culver Jacobin.

Also, my battery’s at 9%. My break’s almost over and I should just give it up.

I start swiping the app closed, but accidentally flick to another photo instead.

Emma again, this time dancing in a club. The colored lights play beautifully off her gold skin. I can’t make out her dance partner in the shadows.

But I can see the bracelet glimmering on her wrist, shining rose gold against disco spangles.

A simple bar. A delicate chain.

Xs engraved on the familiar bar.

Holy shit!

It’s the same bracelet I stuffed in the bottom drawer of my dresser, hoping to never look at it again after what Lucas told me about Celeste and Montero Arrendell.

Only mine has seven Xs.

Emma’s…

I think Emma’s has six.

Every muscle seizes up. I stare at her slender wrist, at the look of joy on her face, my lungs slowly filling with cement.

No. No fucking way.

Oh, something is very, very rotten in the state of Denmark—especially when I’m sure she wasn’t wearing that bracelet when I found her body.

And I’ve got 8% battery left to do something about it.

Inhaling sharply, I start to punch in the phone number—when my phone buzzes in my hand, nearly making me shriek.

I jump back like I’m holding a palmful of bees.

I stare at a number I don’t recognize.

Local area code.

The only local numbers I have saved are Lucas, Ulysses, Nora, Janelle, and the furniture shop that delivered my bed, and it’s not any of them.

Heart thumping, I swipe my thumb across the green answer icon.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Miss Clarendon.”

Montero Arrendell.

His voice oozes coolly through the phone, this stone-cold thing that feels like a bone-stripping wind biting the back of my neck.

My racing heart goes painfully still like a rabbit that’s just come eye to eye with a wolf.

It’s like he knew.

“Mr. Arrendell,” I force out. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, someone completely numb. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I called to replace out what I can do for you.” Over the phone, without the force of his physical presence and commanding charisma, his friendly tone sounds phony. “All these wicked things continuously happening, you poor thing. You must be scared out of your wits.”

I swallow roughly.

“I don’t scare that easily, sir.” And my voice chooses right then to crack, making a liar out of me. I’m petrified right now, and I realize I’m scared of him. Of the connections my mind strings together with that bracelet in Emma’s photograph. Of how it could all be tied to me, to Roger’s death. “But I’m fine. Really.”

“You don’t have to put on a brave face, Delilah—may I call you Delilah?”

No.

The very idea is nauseating, and I have to force words off my tongue. “If you want to.”

“Then I insist you call me Montero. I don’t want you feeling the need to be so formal with me. I’d like to offer you more protection, if I may.”

I frown. “What kind of protection? The police are doing a good job.”

“There are a number of things I could do,” he says. “Assign you a personal guard detail. Hire a private investigator to handle affairs. Our house, we have plenty of suites we could spare if you’d like to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” I rush out. Every word he speaks feels like a Venus flytrap slowly closing around me. “You’re very generous, but I wouldn’t dare impose. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“So independent. I admire that. Are you certain there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” he coaxes.

“I’m sure,” I bite off.

I’m also sure I’d rather eat live cockroaches slathered in ghost pepper sauce than let him lure me into that house.

At least my defensiveness calms the frightened panic shooting through my veins. I manage to sound steadier when I ask, “Ulysses said you wanted to meet with me?”

“Oh, that. Yes. Administrative matters, nothing more. We can talk about it when you’re more settled in and this terrible business has passed.”

I’m actually a little surprised he didn’t pressure me to see him. But maybe that would be too obvious—or he can sense how spooked out of my skin I am.

I want off this call now.

He’s not the one I want to be talking to, and the longer we speak, the more I worry I’ll give away something that’ll make him suspicious.

“I’m so sorry. My battery’s about to die and my lunch break’s almost over.”

“Don’t you dare apologize, Delilah. I called you in the middle of your workday,” Montero responds firmly. “Do what you need to do. I just hope you know you can call on me for anything—anything at all.”

There’s a silky-sour undertone there. A touch of weird innuendo that leaves my stomach turning inside out. I choke back the horror in my throat.

“Thanks,” I force out, polite but stilted. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Delilah.”

He makes my name sound like a slime-coated leaf flapping around.

I hang up with my throat stuck together.

Then I stare at my battery indicator.

6% left.

Fuck.

Pulse jacking, I swipe back to the photo of Marina Santos with one hand, scrabbling in my bag for a pen with the other, and I—I don’t have anything to write on.

Awesome.

So I scribble down the number in blue ink on the cheap particle board of the break room table.

Oops.

I hope that’ll come out.

Christ, why didn’t I just write it on my hand or something?

I get the last number down just as my phone beeps and dies with a cheerful chirp and a flash of the logo.

It’s just me, my dying phone, and that number on the table.

And I’ve got six minutes until my break’s over. I can hear the children shrieking around the courtyard, their laughter drifting through the windows.

It’s so normal versus the weird, crushing atmosphere in here.

My heart skips in an accusatory rhythm, demanding action.

My fingers shake as I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance at the old corded break room phone mounted on the wall. I don’t know if the thing’s even connected.

Only one way to replace out.

Now it’s more important than ever that I talk to Marina Santos.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I rocket to my feet, skitter over to the phone, and press the handset to my ear. There’s a dull tone, and I crane my head to see the numbers on the table before punching them in. I hold my breath and wait.

After a few rings, a soft voice picks up. “Hello?”

The déjà vu that hits is intense.

No matter their pitch, their age, their accent, I know that voice.

Every mother worried for their daughter sounds the same. It’s almost like hearing my own mom speaking with a Spanish accent.

“H-hello? Mrs. Santos?” I try to get my voice under control. What am I doing?

“Yes, this is she, with whom am I speaking?” She sucks in a breath. “Have you… have you heard something about my Emma?”

“No, ma’am,” I blurt out.

Then I smack my palm on my forehead.

Dumbass, why did you lie?

This is why I called her, isn’t it?

To tell her the truth, so she can stop this agonizing searching.

But something jerks me back. I don’t know what it is just yet, but I already told her no and now I don’t know how to break the news.

I don’t know if I can hurt her, even if it’s more painful not to let her know her daughter is dead, delaying the inevitable.

I scramble for something to say.

“My name is Mitsi—” I stop. My eyes dart around the room, landing on an unopened box of tape on the supply shelf. “Mitsi Scotch. I’m a reporter with the—” Red ballpoint pens. Legal pads. “—Red Ledger, out of North Carolina. Listen, I heard about your missing daughter online and I was hoping to replace out more about her. Maybe a story in the paper could help you spread the word.”

Yep, I’m going straight to hell.

But maybe she can tell me something that makes the insanity of Redhaven make sense.

Maybe I can help her help me fix the gaping hole in my heart I won’t let Lucas Graves fill.

She’s quiet before she slowly whispers, “North Carolina?”

“Yes, ma’am. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No—well, no, I don’t think so. What did you want to know?”

“Mostly, if Emma’s behavior had changed before she disappeared,” I say. “Like was she spending time with people who weren’t her usual crowd? Abandoning old friends? Any different moods or erratic behavior? Being secretive?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mrs. Santos says with a sigh. “She’s such a fast-moving girl, always doing something, trying new things. You never know where you’ll replace her next. Rock climbing one day, ballroom dancing the next. She’s never met a stranger in her life. Everyone’s a friend to my girl.” The fondness, the love in her voice rings so clear it strangles me. “But come to think of it, there was one thing a little different…”

I lean forward like I can strain toward her through the phone, bracing a hand against the wall. “Yeah? What was that?”

“She was so happy about something, but she wouldn’t tell me what. She was always trying out for modeling jobs, acting gigs, looking for her big break. I thought maybe she had a lead on something but she didn’t want to jinx it by telling me. But when I think about it, she was almost acting like…” She trails off.

“Like?”

“…like she was in love.” The woman says it almost reluctantly, and I remember Lucas talking about Celeste, how she changed and she’d gone all starry-eyed the way young women do when they replace a bad thing that seems so good. “Emma was blushing at everything all the time, drifting off in her own little world. Hardly eating some nights, hardly sleeping. It’s like she was living on air and glowing with sunshine.”

“But she never mentioned anyone? You never saw her crush?”

“No—oh, you know how girls her age can be, acting like it’s Romeo and Juliet and they’re sneaking off to the next great romance. It’s more exciting when it’s forbidden.”

I frown. “Or would she keep him secret because she thought you might disapprove? Forgive me, but did Emma have a history of dating anyone more… sketchy?”

Like me.

Me and my bad luck that’s less bad luck and more not knowing what real love looks like until I’ve had my heart trampled on.

Or until I’ve trampled all over him.

“How did you know?” Mrs. Santos whisper. “Frankly, I blame her father. I never should have brought that man into my home, but he gave me Emma. Terrible deadbeat, cruel, running around on me all the time, never could hold down a job, and sometimes—” She stops and draws a breath. “Sometimes, he was so mean to my Emma. Always playing games with her just to get her hopes up and then crush them to pieces. She stopped letting him get under her skin by the time she was sixteen, but…” Marina sighs. “I still don’t know how she grew up so sweet with a prick for a father.”

“I’m sure you had a lot to do with it, Mrs. Santos,” I say softly. “Mothers always do.”

There’s a hitched sound.

I think she’s trying not to cry.

Oh, no.

“Does this help? Can you do something to replace my daughter?”

“I’ll try,” I promise.

I’m lower than a gum wrapper right now. I’m such a coward.

But I can’t tell her.

What if I say something that screws up the investigation? Everything Lucas and his men are trying to do to get real justice for Emma.

He was right to keep it a secret, I realize with a sickening weight in my belly.

I never should have called.

But the bell rings, trilling through the whole school and telling me I’m out of time.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to go. Thanks for your time today.”

“Just bring her home.” The urgent way she speaks feels like she’s reaching through the phone to grasp my hands, holding tight, pleading. “Please, Miss Scotch. Bring my Emma home.”

“I will, Mrs. Santos,” I whisper, fighting the jagged lump in my throat. “I’ll do everything I can to replace out what happened to your daughter.”

That, at least, is the only truth I can offer her.

By the time class lets out, my head is spinning—and the very last person I want to see is anyone named Arrendell.

Guess who’s waiting when I step outside and head to my Kia.

Ulysses leans against a gleaming, brand-new BMW—what happened to the Benz? Already bored with it?—with his hands ever so casually tucked into his slacks. He’s practically striking a dramatic GQ pose that’s too deliberately accidental to be real.

Ugh.

I hope my expression doesn’t give me away when I’m so not in the mood for this.

I flash him a swift smile and quickstep past like I’m assuming he’s there for someone else. As if I can even look at him without feeling a ring of fire around my wrist.

That bracelet is branding, a ghostly echo of Emma’s fingers around my arm, tugging me impatiently toward answers.

“Hey, Delilah!” he calls.

I suppress a flinch when he lifts a hand, hailing me.

Okay.

Act natural.

Don’t act like you suspect his father of cold-blooded murder.

I throw on my brightest smile, turning to face him as he jogs toward me. “Ulysses, hi. Here for another boring meeting?”

“Meeting ended twenty minutes ago, actually. The principal’s fishing for a bigger budget for ‘grounds beautification,’ but what he really wanted was a new HVAC system since his office gets beastly hot. No idea why he had to beat around the bush. He could have just asked.” He stops in front of me with a wide smile. “Just like I should ask you—would you come up to the house?”

I blink. “Um, the house? Why?”

“I should have started with that first.” Laughing, he offers me his arm. “Walk with me. Let’s have a coffee.”

Jesus, no.

I don’t want to touch him.

I don’t want to go anywhere with this skeezy man.

But I also don’t want to give myself away or make him suspicious. I also don’t fancy getting fired for insulting my boss’ boss after everything I’ve already suffered to keep this job.

“Sure,” I clip.

My smile feels like a frozen grimace as I slip my arm into his.

The coffee shop is just up the street from the school.

As we walk, he fusses over me, attentive and always seeming to know just a little too much about what’s going on in my life. When I ask how, he chalks it up to the town gossip vine.

But he knows all about Roger and how I’m staying at The Rookery.

He’s oh-so-worried about all the terrible death I’ve witnessed, too, and please don’t let it ruin my impression of the town.

It’s not Redhaven giving me a bad impression, despite everything.

I also don’t know what to say about Roger.

I’ve hated him for so long that I haven’t figured out how to parse my feelings about his shocking death, or the guilt I feel for it, so I’m just—not parsing right now.

Not processing at all.

Shoving it all aside, I try to talk as normally as possible. Ulysses is happy to treat me like I’m a wilting damsel, two seconds away from collapsing on the pavement in grief.

I’ve had enough by the time we place our coffee orders and settle in at a little table outside the café.

“So, what was that about coming up to the house? Are there little Arrendells in need of tutoring?” I flash a smile and change the subject.

“No, no. If I could, I’d keep you for that, but we boys are all degenerate rakes who won’t give our darling mother any grandchildren.” He flashes me a bone-white smile over his Cortado. “Do you remember I said my brothers were coming home, and we were throwing a big welcome bash? It’s a charity gala, really, but my brothers love stealing the spotlight. My father thought perhaps a night out under the lights with good music and five-star food might take your woes away. He sees himself as the protector of this town. Go figure. He’s pretty chagrined over what a time you’ve had ever since you moved here.” He leans closer, almost conspiratorial. “Just between you and me, I think he wants to make a good impression.”

Yikes.

I’m going to vomit.

The man who killed Celeste Graves—who possibly murdered Emma Santos—wants to make a good impression on me?

And after Montero’s own attempt at luring me to his lair failed earlier, now his own son is trying to reel me in.

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly.

I shudder, hating how I read that poem to the third graders earlier.

But I’m no damselfly.

I shake my head, locking my eyes on his. “I’ve heard about your parties. Famous people everywhere and star-studded entertainment, right? That’s just not my jam. A street rat like me wouldn’t fit in.”

His smile vanishes as his brows pull together. “What? Oh, no. We can’t have you thinking of yourself that way, Deli—”

He breaks off as his phone buzzes from somewhere in his pocket. With a sheepish smile, he says, “Excuse me. I hate how these damned phones make everybody rude these days.”

I really wonder if he’s actually so mild mannered, or if it’s just part of his cultivated act.

“Go ahead. I don’t mind.” I take a sip of my frozen latte and smile.

With a grateful nod, he retrieves his phone and swipes the lock screen.

It’s definitely not the brain freeze that seizes my whole body when I see the top window on his screen right before he tabs away to his text messages.

It’s only there for a second, but it’s unmistakable.

Instagram.

A glimpse of the exact same page I was looking at over lunch.

Emma Santos.

Shock, panic, and a thousand other things dart through me.

What the actual fuck?

Why was he looking at Emma’s Insta profile?

I must have the craziest look on my face.

Ulysses glances up a second later and chuckles softly. “Relax. It wasn’t a girl. Just Robert.”

Holy hell.

My stomach flips over again.

Does he seriously think I’m jealous? Of him?

Woof.

Roll with it, Delilah. Better than him figuring out what you’re really thinking.

I swallow the mouthful of coffee slush I left sitting on my tongue.

“Robert?”

“Yes, that one. From Hollywood. He always fusses over what to wear.” Ulysses shrugs. “Speaking of attire, if that’s what you’re so worried about, don’t. I have people who handle the fashion end. All you have to bring is your own fine face. It’s this Friday night. The party won’t really amp up until after eight when my brothers arrive, but you’re certainly welcome earlier.” He watches me intently. “Don’t let me down, Delilah?”

He gives me a miserable hangdog look.

Everything in me screams no, no, no.

Don’t do it.

Don’t even think about it.

But I’ve already made up my mind.

If I can get inside that house, maybe I can replace a clue. Something damning that links Montero Arrendell to Emma. To Celeste. To that Ethan guy. Maybe even to Roger.

It’s like she’s over my shoulder, whispering to me, and she sounds too much like her mother, Marina.

Do it.

Find answers.

Find justice.

Call me a huge idiot. Yes, I know I’m being reckless, making the same mistake every dumb overly brave girl does in the movies and books, but this is real life.

I have an advantage Ulysses Arrendell doesn’t.

The posh vulture sitting across from me doesn’t know what I know.

I’m smiling like I’m skittish and shy when what I’d really like to do is slap him across the face.

“Well… I guess. I’ve always wanted to meet a superhero—or a guy who plays one in the movies.”

“Fantastic!” Ulysses beams at me like a little boy who just found out he’s taking a NASA field trip. “I’ll replace something darling for you, don’t worry—you’ll just need to accessorize. You still have the bracelet?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat, glancing away. “I just left it at home. It’s so pretty, so delicate, and I was worried one of the kids might break it.”

I’m a little proud of the way I’m casually lying through my teeth without stumbling over words.

A light touch to my wrist brings me back.

I almost have to nail myself down to keep from flinching away from his hand as I meet his avid, drilling green eyes.

“Say you’ll wear it,” he whispers, something so intense in his voice it makes me shudder. “I’d love to see it on you.”

My bones are ice.

My lips feel numb as I mutter, “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Yeah.

Sure.

Why do those two words feel like putting a noose around my own neck?

Somehow, I can already feel it closing as he smiles so brightly it’s almost blinding.