Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

50. Remy

50

Remy

A m I overreacting? Maybe. Do I give a fuck right now? Not a single one. I’m on a mission and it’s to get to my boyfriend before shit hits the fan. But if the panic sloshing around in my stomach and the dread pressing on my chest are giving any indication, I’d say the sand in the hourglass is almost out.

Chunks of gravel spray off my back tires as I whip the wheel of my truck like it’s a sports car into Win’s driveway and cut the engine.

Good news: the Rover is here.

Bad news: the only way to the guest house is through the main one.

Birds flee the trees as my fist booms like gunshots on the front door. I pound until it swings inward to reveal a very startled Richard Hastings.

Deja-vu can politely fuck off.

Not bothering with pleasantries, I barge in.

“Whoa—” he balks, stumbling out of my way. “Remy? ”

Like a hurricane, I blow through the foyer and sweep into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, it’s empty. Gritting my teeth, I aim for the French doors.

A strong hand wraps around my bicep, halting me.

“What the hell’s going on?” Richard demands.

I shake off his grip. “Where’s Win?”

“He came home earlier.” He shrugs, gesturing at the hook on the wall beside the refrigerator. “See? The keys are right there.”

“What time?”

Irritation flashes in his eyes, “I’m not sure, I was with a client.”

Useless .

With a scoff, I start to turn—

Then freeze.

“What client?”

He squints, lips in a firm line. A pause. His penetrative glare turns introspective. Calculating. Then his stoic facade slips. Worry lines deepen around his eyes.

“Dr. Larson.”

I’m nose to nose with him, trembling with restraint. “Don’t tell me you’re representing Grant.”

He blinks. Clears his throat. “The Larson’s have donated many times to Marcy’s gallery. He needed urgent assistance so I agreed to review it—”

My disgusted laugh cuts him off. “Yeah, I bet it’s pretty fucking urgent. Have you looked into the evidence yet?”

His nostrils flare. “How do you know about any of this?”

“Grant being a fucking predator isn’t news to anyone,” I snap. “Now answer the fucking question.”

Richard’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens. “Not all of it.”

Circuits fire in my brain at alarming rates. I take off running down the hall to his home office and explode inside. Yelled protests are lightyears away as I round the desk. Open documents, photos and folders pertaining to the case decorate the computer monitors.

“That’s confidential. Get out!” Richard howls.

I ignore him, scrolling through a list of files—

At the very bottom is a video.

Dated and time stamped: Six years ago.

Acid singes my throat.

Begging, “ Nonononono ,” under my breath, my hands shake so badly, the curser dances over the download. My finger twitches on the mouse.

And clicks.

Once.

Twice.

A pop-up.

“Get the fuck away from that!”

A play button on a black background.

Click .

Richard slams into my side.

The mouse clatters to the floor.

Muffled cries and dark laughter crackle from the speakers.

Our attention snaps to the movement on the screen.

We’re statues, staring.

Vomit fills my mouth.

Beside me, Richard braces himself on the desk, eyes wide in horror. His head shakes slowly at first, back and forth, picking up speed.

“I can’t take this case,” he rasps. Buzzing in my ears. I’m in quicksand. His jaw trembles as the image clarifies to reveal a vivid nightmare. “That boy they’re…” A dry, choked sound. “That’s my stepson.”