Chapter 25
twenty-five
DARE
Rose looks lost. She’s trapped and she knows it. My eyes narrow on her bobbing throat. She’s scared. Acid fills my veins. Rose was so young when her mom died that she probably has no idea our mothers used to be good friends. She’s been brainwashed by her dad, trained since she was little to believe everything he says, including all the vicious lies about me.
I still haven’t figured out why Joseph wanted to pin my parents’ murder on me, though, logically, there’s only one reason he would accuse me—he killed them. I don’t know what he gained from their deaths. The majority of the Vista Holdings shares were in a trust. Once I was old enough, my shares were transferred to me, but the trust held my sisters’ until they also came of age.
Maybe it was never ownership he wanted. Maybe Joseph wanted their silence. But for what? There’s no evidence that they knew about the white-collar crimes, and even if they did, that doesn’t seem like enough to warrant their deaths. I’m missing something. There has to be more. Something violent. Maybe my mom didn’t know Rose’s mom as well as she thought. Plenty of people hide their darkness, Joseph included.
Somehow, he’s manipulated everyone around him, and they all believe his lies, especially Rose.
She can’t simply be told everything she knows is a lie. She has to uncover the truth for herself. As stupid as it may be, the easiest way to disprove one of his lies is to give Rose access to Vista Holdings. Let her dig and dig and dig for proof.
Let her question everything.
One thing she said was true, though. I have killed and I’d do it again.
That night, I don’t carry Rose to my bed once she’s fallen asleep. I sit in my office, the scent of polished mahogany and paperwork surrounding me, and pour over police records. Pictures of my parents’ bloody bodies. Their deaths were quick and efficient. More proof that whoever came for them did it with purpose. After the prosecution failed to find enough evidence against me, the case was dismissed before it could go before a jury, suggesting it was simply a random act of violence.
The execution-style bullet holes beg to differ.
There were no signs of a break-in. There were hardly any signs of struggling. My sisters and I were with our grandparents when our parents were murdered. I don’t doubt we’d all be dead had we been home. Did my parents know what was coming for them?
Over the last few years, I’ve wondered that many times. I would ask my grandma why they sent us to her house, but she passed years ago, following my grandpa to the grave. Leaving me with nothing but pieces that don’t fit together.
A scream tears through the house.
My chest constricts, and I bolt upright, the papers in my hands scattering across the office floor. I grab the gun from the desk drawer. The cool metal in my palm gives me a sense of control. Another agonized cry carries through the house. Rose.
Heart in my throat, I rush toward the guest bedroom, sweeping my gaze around.
My breath heaves out of me.
The security system is set up to alert me when it’s compromised. It’s how I knew Rose was coming all those nights ago, but the system isn’t infallible. It’s entirely possible yet another mercenary has broken in. Soft whines filter under her door and my chest constricts. Fuck. I hate that sound. I open the door, scanning the room before pointing the gun at the bed.
But Rose is alone.
Deep in whatever nightmare torments her.
I search the room again, just in case, but the furniture is the only thing lurking in the shadows. When I’m sure no one else is here, I release a harsh exhale and stop beside the bed, pulse still racing from the surge of adrenaline, even as relief loosens my shoulder muscles.
Rose’s eyebrows are pinched together, and her chest is heaving as she pants. Her nails dig into her pillow as she thrashes. “Mama!”
Sighing, I put the safety on, set the gun on the bedside table, and slide the blanket down. She’s wearing a pajama set that does nothing to hide her curves. I force myself to look away—to ignore the relief of knowing she’s safe—and scoop Rose up. Her musky, amber perfume fills my nostrils, and I breathe her in, trying to ground myself to the moment. She’s not in danger. No one’s broken in.
Against all better judgment, I carry her to my room. My jaw is clenched so tight, my head hurts. I had no intention of doing this again. She’s made it clear she’s not mine to protect, but as she releases a soft breath against my neck and it tickles over my skin, fierce possessiveness rolls over me.
Rose is mine. She’s a Richardson. She’s wearing my mom’s ring.
I place her on my bed, tuck her beneath my sheet and blanket, pull her against my body, and exhale as she relaxes against me, her breaths evening out. I can practically imagine the snarl on her face when I tell her that it was the Beast of NYC who kept her safe from the monsters inside her head.
Even though she’ll hate to admit it, some part of her trusts me and maybe, one day, the rest of her will too.