39. Chapter 38
Chapter 38
Keaton
The house was quiet and dark when I came home after an arduous day of work. The past few nights, I’d been burning to hang out with Layne, even if all we did was talk about investing. We’d covered the basics, and her online store where we sold her drawings and paintings was slowly growing. But tonight I didn’t want to crunch numbers. I wanted her to take a swim in the pool with me. Maybe chill in the hot tub afterward.
Whistling, I entered from the entryway into the living room and hit the light switch. Groaning came from the couch.
“Layne?” I maneuvered around the couch so I could see her. She was curled up, eyes closed. “Ever the sluggard while I’m working off my backside.” The only reason I cracked a joke like that was because I knew she could take it.
“Please . . .”
My grin froze at that one whispered word. I sprinted to the light switch and hit it. Darkness immediately commanded the room, the only glow coming from the illuminated swimming pool beyond the windows. As quietly as possible, I moved back to Layne’s side and knelt. “What’s going on?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Exhaustion and pain.” She let out a labored breath.
“Why? What happened?”
“Don’t know.”
I felt her forehead. Not warm, not cold. The way her closed eyes scrunched up ever so slightly indicated that my touch hurt her. She had to be in a lot of pain. “What can I do?”
“Bed.”
No way would I carry her upstairs in this state, and no way would I let her spend the night unattended. My bed was the only option.
“Did you take painkillers?” I whispered.
She gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “An hour ago.”
I cursed inwardly. And she was still in that much pain?
“But they make me sick and my heart race.”
Unbelievable.
“Wait here.” As soon as the words had left my mouth, I groaned. Where was she supposed to go in this state? “What an idiot.”
My muttered words caused the corners of Layne’s mouth to twitch.
“One foot in the grave, yet she still makes fun of me.”
That smile broadened ever so slightly.
“Savage.” Despite the lighthearted jokes, I didn’t feel like laughing. My heart weighed a ton when I headed to my bedroom, lowered the shutters, and readied the bed.
Back in the living room, I carefully slid my hands and arms underneath Layne’s body and lifted her up. Cradling her to my chest, I carried her to my room. Just the thought of how much this had to hurt her nearly sent me over the edge. She didn’t stir when I lowered her onto the mattress. Just lay there like I’d positioned her.
“If you need anything, call me.” I placed her phone within reach, then pulled the duvet over her. “I’ll be in the living room.”
Although everything inside of me screamed to stay with her, I left, quietly closing the door behind me. My presence alone would hurt her, and I had to respect that, even if I couldn’t comprehend why.
I started pacing the living room. How was it possible there was absolutely nothing I could do for her? Whatever came to mind would only worsen her condition. Taking her to the ER would cause a total sensory overload. Dwight paying a visit would be too much for her, too. Painkillers made her sick and gave her heart arrhythmia. There was no cure, not even a treatment. What kind of rotten illness was this?
I headed for the bar and poured myself a drink. Downed it, then poured another one. Tumbler in hand, I stalked to the couch and sank onto it. A growl escaped me. Was I just supposed to sit around and wait while Layne was getting tortured?
Not seeing another option, I tilted my head back and stared at the dancing light the pool painted at the ceiling. Hopefully she’d feel better after some rest.
She didn’t. Her condition didn’t change the following day. I worked from home to keep an eye on her. She occasionally got up to go to the bathroom, which I took as a good sign. When I wanted to bring her food, she said she’d rather eat in the living room to keep the smell out of the bedroom. Lifting a fork was extremely exhausting for her, so I fed her. Eating a small meal took her twenty minutes because she had to take a break after chewing each bite. I spent another night on the couch, quietly sticking my head into the bedroom every hour to make sure she was still breathing. The day after she told me to go back to work, and I figured she needed space, so I did, but kept coming home to check in on her.
Two weeks later, her state still hadn’t changed. Every day I found myself in my office pacing the silver silk carpet like a caged animal.
Today was no different.
“Why are You letting her suffer like that, huh?” I asked God. I’d started talking to Him—yeah, that’s how desperate I’d become—even though I knew He didn’t listen to a man like me. “I don’t know anyone as devoted to You as she is, and You just watch her suffer excruciating pain.” I snorted. “Doesn’t the Bible say You’re love or something? What You’re doing here isn’t love. You’re freakin’ cruel for torturing her like that.”
I stopped in front of Yordan álvarez’s game-used and signed baseball bat hanging behind my desk. Stared at it through the glass.
“Augh!” I slammed my fist into it. The glass shattered, thousands of shards raining down on the carpet.
But I wasn’t done. I took the bat out of the box, stalked to the cabinet showcasing other MLB trophies beside the two leather chairs in the corner, and swung. More glass exploded. I kept going. Didn’t stop until every pane lay in pieces on the floor.
Cursing, I tossed the bat on the carpet and sank into my chair. There had to be something I could do for her. Anything! But what, God? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.
The door opened, and even though I had my eyes closed, I knew it was Margo. “Mr. Grady?”
I said nothing.
“Heavens, your hand! What happened?”
Only now did I feel something warm slithering down the back of it. Blood. “Nothing. Please leave and close the door behind you.”
“Oh no—”
I slammed my fist on the desk, blood splattering everywhere. “Get out!”
Margo raised an eyebrow, but complied and slipped out of my office.
Snarling, I slumped back into the chair. What on this messed up planet was wrong with me? Since when did I lose my temper? Break things and bark at people?
Since I cared about my wife.
A lot.
My desk phone rang. Margo.
I grabbed the receiver. “Sorry about that,” I muttered into it.
“And I’m sorry to disturb you again. Detective Bancroft is here.”
Right, I’d forgotten about our meeting. “Let him in.”
A moment later, the door opened and Bancroft marched into my office, wearing a pair of cargo pants and a black button-down. He let out a low whistle as he crossed the carpet, his brown eyes never leaving the thrashed cabinet. Smart enough not to ask questions, he settled in the leather chair in front of my desk.
“I know I’m bleeding.” I got up and stalked to the closet next to the door, where I kept clean suits and a first aid kit. I grabbed the latter and returned to my spot behind the desk. “Anything new?”
We’d spent a lot of time talking about the threats and who could be behind them. I was almost grateful Layne couldn’t leave the house. She was a lot safer at home than out in public.
Bancroft shook his head. “Nada. I know we already discussed suspects, but I want you to think harder. Tell me Ian Larson’s story again. I looked into him, but maybe I missed something.”
“Ian and I were roommates at Harvard.” I wiped the blood from the back of my hand with gauze. The cut was long but not too deep. “He started a bourbon company. Pete Liquor Distributors was interested in partnering with him, and since his business was small, he needed that deal.” The antiseptic wipe stung when I pressed it to the wound. “One night, we were out partying when the owner, Diamond Pete, ran into us. She ended up closing a deal with me rather than Ian.”
“You never told me what you did.”
“Turned on my charm.” Thinking back made me grimace. I’d been pretty ruthless, only focused on LGD’s gain.
Leather creaked when Bancroft leaned back in the chair and regarded me. “That ruined him?”
“Yup.” And our friendship. “He hired four thugs to beat me up in the dead of night. Spent three days in the hospital.”
“Maybe he didn’t get it fully out of his system.”
I applied antiseptic ointment to the cut, placed fresh gauze on it, and started wrapping my hand. “Maybe.”
“Any other people who wish you ill?”
“Possibly some women.”
“Names?”
I scoffed. “Not a chance.” Done wrapping, I headed back to the closet, tossed the first aid kit inside, and changed into a clean shirt.
Rustling came from behind me, then Bancroft’s boots thudded closer. “All right, I’ll look into Larson again. You let me know if anything else comes to mind.”
“Will do.” Buttoning my shirt, I turned to him. “Appreciate your work.”
He nodded, his gaze locking onto my SIG in my Inside the Waistband holster. “I just hope we’ll catch the guy before it’s too late.”
Yeah, me too.