Chapter 27
Hemlock
There wasn't a moment when she was speaking that I thought she was lying.
Zara Hailey knows nothing about what Wilkinson is doing, but his fucking house is too big, his property too protected by security for him not to be doing something more than owning a few rental houses and a bar. He's up to something illegal, although it might not be exactly what we initially thought.
Ace meets me at the top of the stairs, but I know I don't have to tell him a damn thing. I have no doubt the man was not only watching but listening to our conversation by way of the hidden camera that's in the room. I know he was listening and doing what legwork her details could provide in real-time.
What I don't know is his plan for her now that she has disclosed everything she knows.
"It all checks out," Ace tells me when I step past him. "As you know, there's no other financial connection between her and Wilkinson. Other than her checks from the bar and her rent payments to him, she's clear. There haven't been any bonuses added, and no unexplained cash deposits. She's free to go."
I hate those words.
Free?
She may be able to leave here, but I'll never be free of her, and I know this is a mistake I'll have to live with.
"Her things," he says, handing me a purse. "Her watch and cell phone are in there. I'd urge her to keep her time here quiet. But if she goes to the police, I'll easily be able to shut that down although we haven't exactly made our presence known to local law enforcement."
I wait for him to walk away before I pull my eyes from her things. I shove away the idea of keeping her here longer, knowing that would really make us bad guys. She never should've been held against her will to begin with, but in a way I'm grateful that neither Ace nor Jericho tried to grill her before I woke up. They left it to me, telling me that this was still my case. Or maybe Ace is trying to test me, to make sure that I can cut her loose and keep my eyes on the bigger picture.
I can't help but think the man wants me to fail just so he can say I told you so, but does he really care enough for something like that?
Instead of going right back downstairs and cutting her loose, I climb the stairs to my room, opting to shower first.
I know I'm only postponing the inevitable, but I'm not ready for her to leave. I know if I gave her an option, she'd never stay, and that isn't even an option for me. I need her gone so I can focus on shutting Wilkinson down.
I have some faith that she won't tell him that we're looking into him because she seems to be the type that wouldn't be okay with women being trafficked and hurt, despite the fact that she was creeped out by what she saw and didn't say anything.
There are a lot of people that see shit that makes that part deep inside of them whisper that something was wrong and they don't speak up. It's a rare occurrence that people actually do take a step forward and ask hard questions, especially when it's in a situation that ultimately is none of their business.
It takes more energy than I feel like I can spare to strip out of my jeans and climb into the shower. I don't remember the bandage on my side until it grows heavy with the weight of water and begins to peel away from my skin. Frustrated that such a small wound has had the ability to leave me powerless, I toss the damn thing in the corner of the shower and let the water cascade over my face.
I know what I have to do. I don't have an option. There's no pick a door and hope for the best. Cutting her loose is the only option. It's the only way for me to stay here, to keep doing the work I was created for. I can't let the idea of keeping her—not that she'd even be interested in something like that—settle inside of me. It's already hard enough just thinking of her walking away.
I soap up my body, using a gentle hand over my wound, all the while trying to do my best to convince my mind that being selfish is just that. She isn't going to want to have anything to do with me after what she's been through. Her history is proof enough of that. She lived a quiet life, and I have no doubt that even though she may have wanted an adventure, watching a man get stabbed and then being held hostage in the basement of a cabin in the woods has gone a little past what she'd tolerate as far as her need for a thrill is concerned.
I towel dry slowly and dress even slower, blaming my injury for the lack of haste, but in reality, I know it's because there's nothing about going down and giving Zara her belongings and asking her to leave that I want to be a part of. At the same time, she's not an inanimate object I can just leave down there to visit when the mood strikes, either.
Getting my shirt over my head makes my eyes squeeze closed from the pain, but I know I deserve it. I deserve a lot of castigation for the situation I put her in, all because the woman calms some part inside of me that has only ever been touched when hurting bad people.
I pull in a deep breath before leaving the room, grabbing her purse from the bed before stepping out into the hallway.
I wonder as I walk through the house if Ace is following me on the camera system, waiting to see if he needs to step in to get rid of her when he determines that I won't be able to. I don't dislike the man. He's made some really good points, and I did agree not to form any type of bond with anyone I'm working with. At the time I didn't think it would be an issue. I was more concerned about being able to control that part of me that's willing to jump straight to hurting people instead of assessing a situation and deciding on something that doesn't include bloodshed.
My hand aches from the grip on the strap of her purse by the time I make it to the bottom of the basement stairs, and I stand with my head against the door, wondering what I would say and do if she begged me to keep her. Could I be strong enough to force her to leave?
Just wishing that would be her reaction is a weakness that I need to get under control.
I stand so straight before reaching for the lock that it makes my back ache and my stitches scream in pain, but the sting in my side is a reminder of how dangerous things can be around me, and I never want her to suffer something like I've suffered. The whole reason we weren't supposed to make such connections is to keep people safe, to not have any way for them to twist and turn us. Loyalty to others is dangerous. It's better for everyone involved when we have nothing to lose.
She pops up from the bed, looking as exhausted as I feel, when I open the door. I don't bother closing it behind me again like I did the first time I stepped in here.
"You're free to go," I say, holding out her purse in front of me. "I've been assured that your car keys, watch, and cell phone are in here."
Instead of wavering like a tiny piece of my heart thought would happen, she rushes to me and rips her purse from my grip.
"I'd advise you to keep your experiences to yourself."
She narrows her eyes, and I realize, although I didn't mean it that way, my tone makes it sound like a threat.
"You haven't answered any of my questions."
"And I'm not going to. Use the stairs to get to the main level and you can find your way out from there."
She doesn't argue, doesn't lock her feet in place until I give in to her demands, and she doesn't look back as she walks out of the room with her head held high .
Ihate myself a little more today than I think I ever have, and that's saying something. Normally I live with my hatred like it's a tangible thing that grows inside of me.
The second she's gone, my heart rate kicks up, and it's like my body knows that she's gone forever. There should be a sense of ease inside of me, but there isn't. I know there never will be again. Even feeding that part of me like I've done in the past won't help. My world is forever changed because of her.
I lift my head to walk from the room, but there she is, standing in front of me, and my heart kicks in my chest for a completely different reason, one I don't have the chance to explain before she's right in front of me.
Her chin wobbles some, but I see in her eyes how hard she's fighting to gain control of her emotions.
I don't deserve her. I'll never be able to give her the type of life she deserves. Even her forgiveness for what I got her into is unmerited, but it's a gift I'll readily take.
She lifts her hand as if she's going to cup my cheek and tell me I'm worthy of what she feels for me, she slaps my face instead, hitting me so hard my head turns to the side.
If I were a different man, it might affect me differently, but I don't chase after her. I don't seek retribution.
I stand there in the basement losing track of time and wishing I were a different man.