A maniacal laugh fills the air, and my chest squeezes painfully.
“It isn’t fair. And the one thing I thought I took from him, Well.” He smiles, waving the gun at me. “Here you are.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“No.” He shakes his head, running his free hand through his hair. Even from a few feet away, I can see the trembling. “But you will be.”
And then he raises his gun in the air and pulls the trigger.
Chapter 50
My stomach churns violently as my fist meets Paul Jensen’s front door, the surface bowing from the sudden impact. I don’t wait to hear footsteps on the other side, the rapping of my knuckles against wood a mechanical, repetitive motion that I can’t pull myself out of.
Anything to temporarily numb the panic settling into my bone marrow.
Gabe is the fucking Fate Reaper.
Gabe.
My sister’s husband, my nephew’s father.
My best friend.
I don’t need to know the motive behind it, or see any more evidence; it’s a truth I can feel in my soul, scraping its venomous talons down my back and filling me with revulsion.
Why the fuck didn’t I see it before?
The door swings open, Paul’s irritated face appearing; he reaches up, grabbing my hand before it can land a punch to his face, shoving me back with a grunt.
“You mind, boy? Some people use the nighttime to sleep, you know.”
A stuttered breath wrangles out of my chest, and I push past him, my eyes scanning the cottage’s front room. It smells like pine and cider, the plaid sofa across from the fireplace the exact same one he’s had the last twenty years. My foot catches on the massive black bear rug in the middle of the room, and I stare down at it, remembering how much Mrs. Jensen hated the thing.
Pain twists like shackles around my heart, and I whirl on Paul as he comes up behind me. “Where is she?”
He blinks, his face contorting with annoyance. “Where is who?”
“Morgan,” I snap, reaching out to grip his shoulders. Trying to keep myself from losing my last vestige of sanity. The longer I go without knowing she’s safe, the more I can feel my brain unhinging. “Your daughter? She said she was coming up here to talk to you.”
“My…” Paul’s eyes narrow, and he wrenches out of my hold, walking over to a hutch next to the front door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the shit, old man.” I walk over, pulling open a drawer and grabbing the first overturned picture frame I touch. Yanking it out, I hold it up, practically mashing it into his face. “Detective Sloane is your daughter. Don’t act like you don’t know that.”
He stumbles back, snatching the frame from my hand. “I don’t…”
His eyes go wide as he takes in the photo, roving back and forth over Morgan’s ten-year-old face.
A single tear beads on his bottom eyelid, and he reaches up, batting it away with a wrinkled hand. “I had my suspicions, but I didn’t… didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Well, congratulations,” I say, starting to pace around the house, renewing my efforts to find her, even though my gut says she isn’t here. “Now where the hell is she?”
“She hasn’t been here.”
He doesn’t stop looking at the picture.
Fear slides up my throat, hot like bile, and I drag my hands through my hair, pulling tight as I try to think. I know she wouldn’t have lied, not when she was so determined to get answers and figure shit out, but… where the hell would she have gone?
A bolt of lightning cracks against the night sky, illuminating the fog through the window, and I freeze, my breathing growing shallow when I see the lighthouse.
The door is wide open.
My stomach tenses, anxiety knotting in my organs, and I swing my gaze to Paul. “You been in the tower today?”
He frowns. “No. You’re the only one who ever goes up there.”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks for a split second, with the realization that he’s been aware of where I’d been disappearing to all these years. But I shake it off, squaring my shoulders as I head back outside.
“Not the only one.”
My steps are heavy as I stalk across the yard, my chest tightening with each crunch of leaves beneath my feet.
I can feel Paul’s presence behind me, a shadow casting beyond me each time the lightning flashes in the sky, and I have a moment of déjà vu, remembering the last time I was here, searching for Morgan.
“She can’t have gone far,” Paul calls, staring out past the lighthouse, the hesitation in his voice revealing that even he isn’t convinced.
My pops claps his hand over my shoulder, squeezing through the black cloak of my vampire costume. “We’ll find her, kid. Don’t worry.”
I nod, knowing that if anyone can, it’s Skelm Island’s premiere lobsterman. Tears sting my eyes as I look up at him, but I clear my throat, trying to will them away.
Porter men don’t cry.
Crouching down, my father meets me at eye level, his big hands resting on my neck. “Don’t give me that, Linc. I don’t want your damn tears. They don’t help in these situations.” He brings one hand down, his dark eyes holding mine as he taps a finger to my chest, arching his brows. “You look in here, and you focus on that little glimmer of happiness. That sunspot on your heart with her name on it. You feel it?”
Biting my lip, I suck in a strangled breath, warmth radiating beneath his touch. The kind I only feel when she’s around.
I nod.
“Good. Until that feeling’s gone, don’t you dare give up hope.”
Stepping into the tower, it’s that feeling I try to focus on, tethering myself to the way my heart calms at the thought of her, as if my body just knows. I’ll find her.
Still, the feeling slips away the second we spot Preacher Cartwright’s mutilated corpse, damn near unrecognizable, covered in blood and carved to bits.
Vomit teases the back of my throat as I stare, Paul skidding to a halt beside me, both of us taking in the Latin etched into the man’s chest.
Signasti fatum tuum.
You have sealed your fate.
“What the hell?” Paul hisses. “A copycat? For Christ’s sake, I thought—”
My heart rages in my ears, blood rushing between them as I recall my earlier conversation with Gabe.
I told him she’d be here.
“Not a copycat,” I deadpan, taking a step back out of the tower. “Gabriel Wilson is the Fate Reaper, and I think…” I suck in a breath, every muscle in my body aching. “I think he had something to do with Morgan’s disappearance.”
My voice breaks on the last word, even though the conviction I feel in the claim is steady. Why else would the black rose have been there in the lockbox?
The sound of a gunshot ricochets through the air, and my mouth dries up, my tongue swelling as my anxiety skyrockets.
Paul whirls around, eyes darting from left to right, and I walk behind him, shoving him back toward the cottage.
“Go,” I tell him, desperation scratching my throat. “Call the fucking cops.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice, and the second he’s out of range, I jog to the other side of the lighthouse, peering through the fog as the ocean rages below.
A sob echoes on the wind, drawing my attention to the cliffside; I squint, relief barreling through me as I make out two shadowed figures, one standing, the other stretched out on the ground.
My stomach plummets. Two figures.
Clenching my jaw, I slide along the side of the lighthouse, the white brick cool against my side as my coat rides up. My breathing is ragged, too loud as I approach, and I can only hope the wind covers the sound.
I’ve done extractions before. Overseen operations far more dangerous than this, fighting for my life as bullets whizzed past my head and I bled out from knife wounds.
But I was never in love with the victim. Didn’t know how badly the emotio
n could cloud your judgment, and as I press myself harder against the building, I’m physically repressing the urge to dart over and launch myself on top of Morgan.
Plus, I’m not sure about Gabe’s mental state, or his intentions here. I need to play it safe.
Even if every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me not to.
I’m not losing you a second time, Morgan.
As I reach the end of the wall, I plaster myself as close as possible to it, studying the scene before me; Morgan’s flat on her ass, clutching her ankle as she tilts her head up at Gabe.
He’s monologuing in a low voice—too low for me to make out the words.
But he’s distracted, which is good. A gun dangles from his hand, and he spins it around, clearly comfortable with the fact that Morgan’s subdued. Rookie mistake, letting your guard down.
I wait for him to turn his back and push off the wall as he stares out over the ocean, sprinting in his direction; just as I’m about to reach him, though, a beam of light splits the sky as the tower turns on for the first time in two decades.
Gabe spins around at the same time, arms outstretched, and the pistol whips across my face before I have a chance to dodge it; the taste of copper floods my mouth, and I see stars as my head jerks to one side, knocking me to my knees.
“Lincoln,” Morgan screams, the sound making my ears ring.
“Goddamnnit,” Gabe shouts, launching himself backward, slipping on the edge of the rocky shore. He rights his footing, shaking off his surprise, and glares up at the lighthouse. “I thought that thing was broken.”
I spit out a mouthful of blood, rubbing my jaw as I push back to my feet. “What the fuck is going on, Gabe?”
He looks at me, tilting his head. “If you’re here, that must mean you already figured it out.”
I don’t glance in Morgan’s direction, already feeling my resolve unravel as she whimpers off to the side. If I see her distress up close, I won’t be able to contain myself.
Steeling Gabe with a look, even as he points the gun in my direction, I frown. “You’re a killer now, Gabe? That’s not like you.”
“Clearly, you don’t know me, then.” He laughs, the sound hollow and broken. “Although, I guess I can’t be surprised, considering the only person you’ve ever fucking cared about was little Morgan Jensen. What the fuck did she have that was so great, hm? How come she was more important to you?”
Frowning, I shake my head. “Jesus, Gabe, she was my best friend.”
“I was your best friend first,” he snaps, waving the weapon. “But when she came along, it was like you two were part of this exclusive club, and no one else had access to it.”
My eyes flicker to her for the briefest second, assessing for visible damage, and then back to him.
“She didn’t even have to ask for your help, and you’d just give it to her. Morgan had a bully? Oh, Lincoln Dean Porter to the fucking rescue. Where the fuck was my help?”
“I don’t…” A lump lodges in my throat, and I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean. What did you need help with?”
“Jesus Christ, are you stupid or in denial? Why don’t you ask Detective Sloane about the little present I left her in the lighthouse?”
Morgan blows out a breath. “He killed Preacher Cartwright.”
“I know. I saw.” My brows furrow, my brain trying to make sense of everything. “Are you trying to send some sort of message?”
Gabe laughs maniacally. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. Death to fucking pedophiles.”
Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I try to block out the immediate surge of guilt that rears like a tidal wave in my gut, flooding my nervous system and breaking me in half. When I open them again, Gabe’s standing a little bit closer, a malicious grin stretched over his face.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen from him before, and I can’t help staring harder, trying to find a semblance of the man I grew up with.
The husband and father I know.
The friend I’ve loved.
“Didn’t know Cartwright liked to get handsy? Oliver and I did. Every time you ran off to do fuck-knows-what with her,” he says, aiming the gun at Morgan, “that fat fucker would bend us over his desk, shove us onto our knees. Make us repent for giving him sinful thoughts, and then tell us we’d burn in hell if we ever told anyone. Real piece of work.”
My throat burns. “I didn’t… Jesus, fuck. I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. Oliver and I kept our mouths shut, and the women at the church who suspected did everything in their power to sweep it under the rug.” His face pales, eyes blazing. “Not even the time I came out of his office with blood streaked across my mouth and ran into his wife, did anyone say anything.”
“Blood?” Morgan chokes, and Gabe’s eyes volley to her, his stance unmoving.
“He didn’t like back talk,” Gabe whispers, and a sharp pang lances through me, a canyon of despair threatening to crack open and drown me. “If the back of his hand didn’t shut you up, any of the objects he shoved down your throat… or other places… would.”
“Oh, god,” Morgan sobs, leaning over with her head hanging. Retching fills the air, and Gabe turns away, disgust marring his features.
But more than that, I see sadness. A terribly broken man standing before me, convinced he’s at the end of his rope.
“Cartwright got what he deserved.” I take a step in Gabe’s direction. He doesn’t seem to register the movement, too lost in his thoughts. “But what about the women you killed?”
“Lies of omission.” His voice is flat. “I refuse to let my son grow up around women who don’t protect their kids the way they should.”
My chest throbs, his words slicing right through me. Fuck, how am I going to tell Daisy?
“You tried to frame me,” I say. “Why?”
“You already did your service, protecting Morgan. I wanted to save my son from the same fate.”
“Of being molested—”
“No, of coming up short in your life. If a person isn’t Lincoln’s number one priority, their needs don’t matter.” He glances up at the sky as thunder rolls in. “I thought getting rid of Morgan would fix that, but clearly I only ever made it worse. No one has ever mattered to you more than she does.”
“You’re right.” My eyes find hers as she drags her hand across her mouth, and that warm feeling flares inside my chest, residual hope springing up even as we face potential death. “I’m in love with her. And killing her won’t change that.”
Sighing, Gabe rocks back on his heels, scratching at his temple with the gun. Then he brings it back down, aiming the barrel at my chest. “Guess I should start at the source, then.”
“It’s really hard to repair a friendship after an attempted murder,” I say, something in me still trying to reach out for him. “What does it solve, Gabe?”
“It’s not always about resolution,” he replies, shrugging. “Sometimes, it’s about extinguishing the pain.”
“Gabe.” My voice is pinched, nervous. Distraught. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have… fuck, I would’ve done anything to keep you from being hurt. You have to know that.”
The plea doesn’t seem to register, though; his finger flicks the trigger, a shot blasting through the air at the same time as Morgan’s horrified shriek, and I brace myself for the impact, hoping it somehow misses important organs so I can still get Morgan out of here.
But the pain never comes; blinking, I sweep my hands down over my chest, inspecting for a wound, afraid that maybe shock is keeping me from feeling it, but find nothing.
Aside from the dull ache in my cheek, I’m completely unharmed; my chin snaps up as Gabe shouts a curse, dropping the gun from his hand as he falls to the ground, fingers wrapping around his thigh.
“Fuck,” he screams, applying pressure as blood spurts from the hole in his jeans.
I whirl around, afraid that maybe we missed an accomplice, but instead meet Paul’s steely gaz
e as he creeps toward us, his rifle tucked beneath his chin.
Relief sags in my shoulders, and I launch forward as sirens blare in the distance, grabbing the discarded gun before Gabe can recover. I train it on him, my breaths ragged as they tear from my chest.
Morgan’s broken sob cuts through the air, and I swallow, unwilling to take my eyes off Gabe for even a second.
Paul nods toward his daughter. “Go,” he commands, pointing the rifle at Gabe as he continues howling in pain.
My stomach cramps as I watch my best friend curl into himself, tears streaking down the sides of his face, my heart being flayed wide open as his agony bleeds into the cold air. I’m frozen, helpless, and fucking broken as reality pours down on me.
I failed him.
Something else presses into me, a massive weight crushing my chest with its intensity.
Anger.
The longer I stand here watching Gabe writhe in agony, his cries echoing off the cliff, the less attached I become to his pain.
It morphs, the realization that I wasn’t there for him, into something feral, a cancer ravaging my body. Because—how the fuck was I supposed to know?
I was eleven years old, for God’s sake.
Granted, maybe I could’ve paid more attention. Maybe I could’ve stayed behind, discovered what was going on and put a stop to it.
But that wasn’t my fucking responsibility.
Instead of getting help or finding a way to heal, Gabe succumbed to his demons. Murdered people in retaliation and tried to pin the blame on me.
And even though I wasn’t one of the Fate Reaper’s victims, Gabe Wilson still managed to ruin my life when he removed Morgan from it.
So, while pain and pity throw a party in my throat, resentment builds in my chest like a geyser, exploding, forcing me to turn away from his form in search of something good.
Morgan’s hiccup draws my attention, and as red and blue lights glare against the night sky, I scramble back, tossing the gun past us, and over to her, immediately collecting her into my embrace.
I smooth the damp hair from her face as she buries her head in my neck, her tears soaking the front of my shirt as she clings to me.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 34