She smoothed her hands back over her hair and locked them at the base of her neck, staring at nothing. “The job—she picks up men, drugs them, steals from them and it’s a job. This time, the guy she tried to pick up in this bar hadn’t been into her. Christo said she must have fucked up—fucked up. Yeah, that covers it.” She bit her lip, her gaze skittering off to the side before she looked back at him. “They looked for marks who looked like they had it pretty good. Nice cars, nice clothes . . .”
Trey’s gut started to churn.
Fuck.
“This guy, she’d given him something and he’d been drinking, but he wasn’t going for it. Christo was determined, though. He was in trouble himself, owed people some money and I guess this guy looked like he was doing pretty well and each time Kiara tried to find somebody else there, he’d push her back to this one guy. Then the guy up and leaves the bar . . . there was some kind of fight, though. She took off and Christo caught up with her at their place. Hurt her pretty bad. She . . .” Ressa’s voice tripped. “She came to me. My cousin came to me, all battered and bloody and bruised. She had some stranger’s credit cards, his cash. She told me she just needed to stay there that night—she’d pay me. She offered to pay me. The idiot. Then . . .”
The words came out hard, flinty. “Christo showed up at my door. Banging on it, yelling at me. I told Kiara to never tell that son of a bitch where I lived, but she’d done it anyway. He kept banging . . . I called the cops. Kiara saw me do it and she hit me. There I am, trying to report somebody who’d beat her, somebody who was practically trying to knock my door down while a little baby slept in the bedroom upstairs and Kiara hit me. I almost hit her back. But . . .”
Trey waited. Her hands clenched and unclenched, her jaw went tight. Finally, she shook her head. “It wouldn’t have done any good. I told her that son of a bitch was not getting in my house—that the police would be there and I hoped like hell they arrested him. And she went to the door. I told her if she left with him, she’d better not keep dragging me back into her life—told her I was trying to take care of her baby, trying to take care of myself—I couldn’t take care of her, too. I was mad, I was scared . . . I . . . I shouldn’t have said it.”
“You were thinking about Neeci, it sounds like. About yourself and your safety and the fact that you had to take care of both of you. Kiara wasn’t going to worry about her daughter—somebody had to,” Trey said.
He didn’t think she even heard him.
“I don’t know much of what happened between the time she left and the next phone call. Kiara said he hit her again and she thought she passed out. When she woke up, he was gone and she was alone in a motel where they’d ended up. She called Hannah. She was scared and alone and I’d told her not to keep dragging me into it, so she called Hannah.”
* * *
Ressa tried to think of the first time she’d met Hannah. A pretty girl who had just come fresh from the farm—and she looked liked it, too—all golden hair and blue eyes and sunshine. She’d been a hot mess half the time they’d known each other. Hannah had dropped out of college and ended up the mistress of one of the men she’d met through Sharon.
Ressa rarely saw her friend after she left school, but sometimes they’d have coffee and Hannah had seemed happy. We never did . . . you know . . . while I was one of Sharon’s girls, Hannah had said, blushing the entire time. But I needed the money and I called him, asked if he’d still like to have me go to dinner and stuff when he was in town . . . this is just how it ended up.
Hannah had been at home, a cute little cottage where a fifty-nine-year-old married banker kept her in the kind of style she’d always wanted. She was pampered and spoiled and she had a sweet heart.
“She told Kiara to come over. Promised she’d help her. Give her money . . . whatever. Kiara went over. A couple hours later, Christo came looking for her. It turns out he’d put a GPS thing on her phone—she never went anywhere that he didn’t know about. He went over there, broke in. Had Kiara by the hair and was dragging her out when Hannah went after him with a baseball bat. She hit him once . . . and he got it away from her. Killed her. Kiara was there—saw the whole thing. And when he was done and said they had to get away, get rid of the evidence, Kiara just went along with it.”
Trey thought he might be sick. For so many reasons—the mark. The fucking mark. A girl dead. His head pounded. Son of a bitch.
“Somebody heard the screams, saw them leaving,” Ressa said, her voice faint. “They released a sketch. I saw it on the news the next day. And I knew. I wanted to be wrong. But I knew. She came over that night, crying. She begged me to be quiet, said she hadn’t meant for anything bad to happen. Christo was sorry and he hadn’t touched her since and they were just going to leave . . .”
Her fingers twisted with his, clung tight.
He doubted she even realized how desperately she held on in that moment.
“She was going to just run away. It was like Hannah’s death meant nothing—just a sad accident, and if she left it would make everything better. She’d come that night to tell me that she wanted me to get things together for Neeci. So she could take the baby with her . . .” Her eyes searched his. “I couldn’t do it. I lied and said, Okay. I’ll be quiet . . . I’ll get it ready. I told her exactly what she wanted to hear and I made her believe it . . . and then I called the cops. I turned my cousin in, Trey.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
For the longest time, he didn’t speak.
Then, just when Ressa was about ready to pull away—no, run away—Trey cupped her face in his hands.
He pressed a kiss to her brow, one to each eye and then brushed his lips over her cheeks. When he pressed his mouth to hers, she almost choked on the sob.
“You did the only thing you could have done,” he said softly.
“I—”
“You did the only thing you could have done.”
When he looked at her, his eyes were intense, that surreal blue green all consuming. “I can understand that she was probably scared of this guy. He probably had her convinced that she had to lie. I can’t imagine how she felt, or what she went through. But he’d killed somebody. She wanted to take her baby and run off with this guy. What else were you going to do?”
She grabbed at his wrists. “I didn’t even try to look for another way out. I just called them. All I could think about was Neeci. I didn’t think about Kiara or what might happen. What does that make me?” she demanded.
“I think it makes you a mom,” he said softly.
She sucked in a breath.
His thumb brushed over her mouth. “You reacted out of a need to take care of a baby you loved.”
“I’m not her mother,” she said. “What I did caused Neeci to lose her mother.”
“What you did protected her—her mother, or at least the woman who gave birth to her—sounds like she’s already lost.”
“I . . .” She stopped. Slowly untangling her hands from his wrists, her legs from his, she stood up. “I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. I told Mama Ang what I did and I lied to her face when I said I was sorry, but I’d do it again.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Honestly, Ressa . . . do you think that little girl would have been happy with Kiara? Shit, we can set that aside completely—would she have been safe?”
“No.” She didn’t even have to think it through.
“Then I’ll say it again—you did the only thing you could do.”
He got up and rubbed his hands over his face before he tipped his head back.
“Fuck,” he snarled.
“Trey, I . . .”
He just shook his head and held up a hand. “Nothing’s changed,” he said softly. “Not for me. But . . .”
He blew out a breath and moved to the closet.
She stared at the black raven that stretched out over his back, watched the wings flex as he reached up to grab a box down from the shelf.
“Your sister . . .” When he loo
ked back at her, his face was grim. “Her last name isn’t MacAllister or Bliss, is it?”
“What?” Confused, she shook her head. “No, it’s . . .”
“Oxford,” they said it at the same time.
Ressa sucked in a breath. “How do you . . . ?”
She stopped as he moved to the bed. He took the lid off the box.
“The night of my wife’s funeral, I couldn’t come home,” he said, taking out a folder and flipping it open, then closing it. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in the bed I’d shared with Aliesha—not without her.”
Ressa’s gaze involuntarily moved to the bed they’d shared.
“It’s new.”
She looked back at him.
“I donated the old bedroom suite a few years ago. I wasn’t even able to sleep in here for almost a year—used a guest bedroom. Then I decided I’d avoided the truth long enough . . . it was hard. I had to go through it twice . . .”
He found something—a letter. When he opened it, something fell out.
“Twice?” she asked, distracted by whatever it was he held.
“Yeah.” He looked over at her now. “I’d gone out. Went to a hotel and rented a room, then hit the closest bar. Got shitfaced drunk—I don’t remember much. Much—shit. I don’t remember any of it. The next day . . .”
He paused and looked away. “I woke up in the hospital. Travis was there. I’d forgotten. For a few minutes, I’d forgotten that Aliesha was dead.”
“Why—” She stopped the question when her voice cracked. Holding up a hand, she took a deep breath and then forced the question out. “Why were you in the hospital?”
“I think you already know, Ressa.”
Ice replaced the blood in her veins. Turning away, Ressa shoved her fists up by her temples, shaking her head. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“You—” She spun around, questions and denials and rage choking her.
And he held out the letter.
She almost dropped it when she caught sight of a name on it.
Mr. Barnes
My partner and I understand that you didn’t want to file a report regarding the events of . . .
Her heart lurched as they landed on the date.
Most of the letter turned into a blur but her heart froze as she read her cousin’s name and read a brief, concise version of the charges that were placed against Kiara for the thefts she’d been involved in—thefts, and several sexual assaults.
A few of the victims had filed reports.
And Christo had kept more than a few pieces of evidence . . . souvenirs that had ended up weighing very heavily against him and Kiara.
Your wallet was found among the items recovered. As it had a picture of you and your wife and was monogrammed with your initials, I feel fairly confident it’s yours.
Kiara Oxford and Christo Klemons were both found guilty in separate trials. Christo matches the description of the man you were seen to be fighting with the evening of the events.
I realize this happened at an awful time for you. I hope this doesn’t add to your grief, but offers some closure. If you’d like to claim your belongings, please contact me.
It was signed Detective Julie Maynard.
Julie . . . She barely remembered her, but she knew her.
Julie had been Hank Moritz’s partner.
Two of the detectives involved in the case against her cousin.
The letter fell.
She didn’t even notice.
“It was you,” she said, the words a flat monotone. It didn’t even sound like her voice.
“Looks like.”
She rubbed at her mouth, her fingertips feeling oddly numb. “How . . . I . . . I don’t . . . why are you telling me this?” she whispered.
“Why?”
* * *
The haunted look in her eyes would haunt him.
She wanted to know why.
It was now or never, he realized. Either what they had was strong enough, or it wasn’t.
He closed the distance between them and didn’t know if it was a good sign or not when she didn’t move. She looked trapped, frozen in place.
Wrapping her in his arms, he pulled her up against him.
“The why is easy.” There, he pressed his brow to hers, held her gaze. “I love you. It started months ago . . . seeing you with Clayton, watching you act like you weren’t trying to watch me even while I was doing the same. I think I was already half in love with you the first night we were together.”
“You . . . What . . .”
She twisted away and he had no choice but to let her.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?” He kept his voice level, stayed where he was, although what he wanted was to grab her, hold her.
She spun back around and stared at him, eyes half wild. “Don’t do that—don’t sound all reasonable right now. I’m terrified. I’m confused . . . and I’m mad at her all over again. Don’t sound . . .”
She blinked and shook her head. “You make it sound like that’s all that matters.”
“It is.” He reached out, traced his fingers along the bow of her upper lip. “I love you. For me, that is what matters. And I don’t know about you, but if the two of us can work through this? I’d say we can handle just about anything else life throws at us.”
Chapter Thirty
Ressa stared at him, her eyes wide and he thought he almost saw a flicker of hope in them. A flicker of . . . everything.
“So . . . can we work through this?”
She sucked in a deep breath and looked away, but he caught her chin and guided her face back to his. “I’m not asking for a declaration of undying love, but if you care—”
“If I care?” she interrupted. Her voice cracked. “You stupid idiot. I love you—if I didn’t care—”
I love you—that was all he heard. All he needed to hear. Pulling her up against him, he slanted his mouth across hers. When she didn’t open right away, he nibbled on her lower lip and whispered her name.
Her lips parted as she curled one arm around his neck.
A fist banged on the door.
“Not now!” Trey was going to hurt whoever was at the door. That was all there was to it.
The knock came again. “I said, not now!”
“Yes, now.” Travis’s voice sounded grim. “Your agent has been calling half the morning. Your editor just started calling. A hell of a lot of other people who shouldn’t even have your number are calling, too.”
“Tell them to go to hell.” Trey didn’t looked away from Ressa’s face. He cupped her chin and angled her head back. “Tell my agent to call back in two hours. Unless the world is ending. Then call back in one.”
“Unless the world is ending?” she asked, laughing weakly.
“I figure if the world is ending, there’s not much I can do to help anyway.” He shrugged, and then he hooked his arms over her shoulders. “We can’t undo the past. Any of it. And hell, the past—your past, Kiara’s past—all of that gave you Neeci. Would you undo that?”
Ressa closed her eyes and then buried her face against his neck. “No.” It was a soft, barely audible whisper. “And I feel awful for saying that. I mean . . . Hannah . . .”
“Don’t.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “You didn’t cause her death, baby. You didn’t.”
“Trey!” Travis. Again. “Two seconds warning! I’m coming in.”
That two-second warning was literally all they got because the door opened and Travis filled the doorway. He looked at the two of them standing there half-dressed and cocked a brow. “Damn. I was hoping that two-second warning wouldn’t be enough.”
“Travis.” Trey kept his voice level. “Didn’t I just tell you to come back? Do you want to die?”
“It’s going to happen sooner or later.” Travis shrugged and then held out the phone in his hand. “You need to talk to your damn agent and don’t give me this shit abou
t the world ending. He’s already tried to rip me a new one and I was in a bad mood to begin with.”
“Shit.” Frustrated, he looked at Ressa and then snatched the phone from his twin’s hand.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ressa duck into the bathroom.
“What the hell is so important that I had to be dragged out of bed?” He almost sagged in relief when Ressa appeared back in the doorway a moment later, tying his robe around her waist.
“It’s almost noon, son. I take it you haven’t been online.” Reuben’s voice had that brusque, clipped tone—a sure sign that his temper was edging near the boiling point.
“No. It’s Sunday. I kind of take that day off—also, if I want to stay in bed until almost noon, well, bully for me.”
He slid Ressa a look then glanced at his brother, saw that Travis was slouched in the doorway. Travis had his own phone out and there was a muscle pulsing in his twin’s jaw.
Shit.
“What is going on?”
Reuben said, “You’d be better off seeing for yourself.” He named a popular publishing blog and said, “Pull it up. I’ll wait.”
Trey sighed. “I’m not in front of my computer right now, man.”
Travis just held out his phone.
Trepidation filled Trey as he took it. “Never mind . . . I got it.”
“Are you reading?” Reuben asked.
“I am now.” Something that started out as fury brewed in his gut. Only to give away to disbelief and then settle down into something cold and tight.
He kind of hates to talk about his writing in any way.
He did it for his wife, you see . . . Started them on the anniversary of the day she died.
He still loves her. It’s going to take a long time before he gets over her.
Each book is written for her.
Every sentence made that knot of cold fury draw tighter. And every time he saw the name the so-called article was attributed to, he wanted to hit something.
Busted (Barnes Brothers #3) Page 34