Pulse

Chapter 18

Troy

Sleep has never been a friend of mine.

I can’t remember a time in my life when rest came easy. As a child, when the sun went down, things got sporty. Dad would come home and wake the whole house up with his yelling and breaking shit. If he was gone, the paper-thin walls would betray my mother’s privacy, and Travis and I could hear her crying in her room. Ralph even knew. Once it got dark, he’d corral my brother and me into our shared closet of a bedroom and lay in front of the door.

And we waited.

It’s been twenty years since I lived in that house—since I lived with, since I had parents—and I still fight anxiety every evening. Old habits die hard.

I exhale, blowing out some of the frustration riddling me tonight. I lie with Dahlia because she, too, seems to have a bad relationship with the dark. Something tells me this is a new thing with her, that it probably started once she realized her privacy had been violated. I don’t ask. I can’t track down the person who fucked with her and fuck with them back … yet.

But I will.

I pick up my glass of tea that was hot an hour ago and carry it to the table. My computer’s open, and a notepad and pen are beside it.

I’m particularly antsy tonight. Something’s nagging at me, and I can’t pinpoint it. I can’t work through the fog to find the root of my disturbance.

“What the hell is bothering me?” I ask the empty room. “What am I missing?”

I consider that it’s simply that I want to go home. I want to get it out of the way. When I think about returning to Savannah and all the things that could go wrong—assuming the stalker has been found and dismembered—it makes me nauseous … and ready to fight. I’m already done. Dahlia stole my fucking heart when I didn’t think I even had one. I’ve intentionally avoided this situation, this level of vulnerability, my entire life. Truth be told, it wasn’t that hard.

Until her.

Fear coats my stomach, reminding me this could go wrong. I could fail her. What if I’m unequipped to love her the way she wants to be loved?

What if she realizes that I’m unlovable?

“Stop it,” I say, admonishing myself. I sit at the table and awaken my computer. “I might be in Lincoln’s house, but I don’t have to be weak.”

I skim over the spreadsheet I started earlier, listing everyone who could be behind Dahlia’s threats. I’m missing something. I can feel it.

But what?

The list isn’t too long, but it is complicated.

Joseph Dallo.

Someone from Alfred Dallo’s (grandfather) past:

- Cartel connection

- Revenge

Someone at Joseph’s house:

- Alexis Dallo

- Staff

Freddy Henke

I log in to the Landry Security system and pull up Dahlia’s file. Clicking through the team’s notes and logs, nothing stands out. I grit my teeth and open the pictures sent to her in the email.

“What can I learn from this?”

I zoom in on the image from her bathroom. We know how this was taken. Theo found the camera.

Thank fuck the bastard didn’t send a naked picture of Dahlia. Because I’m sure he got some, given the angle.

I swipe to the shot of her at dinner with friends. Something about it bothers me. I lean forward, blowing it up, and then reduce it. The only thing I notice is how hot Dahlia looks in red lipstick.

“Why have I never seen her in red lipstick before?”

I move to the next image, but before it loads, I return to the previous picture.

“She’s wearing red lipstick.” I sit back in my chair. “You’d have to be reasonably close or have an expensive camera with a long-range lens to capture that.”

All the photographs are in that vein. The grocery store. The park. At her friend’s house.

“Someone wasn’t too worried they’d be caught,” I say. “If they were busted, they’d have had to have an excuse that would be believable.”

They know her.

I flip back to the spreadsheet and put a strike-through next to the cartels. “That rules out the cartel connection. They just murder, anyway. They’re not going to go to all this trouble.”

Then I strike the open category of revenge. It’s too impersonal.

“What about Daddy Dearest?” I say, studying Joseph’s name. “There are probably reasons I could pin it on you, but I … eh.” I groan, shaking my head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t you have asked her to leave if you wanted her gone? And why would you have intentionally entered her life less than two years ago, just to threaten her life?”

I sigh, trying to be unbiased. Maybe Ford knows something I don’t. That could be why he thinks he’s a viable candidate for murder.

“Let’s play Devil’s Advocate,” I say, working through it. “What would make a man flip that fast?”

I tap my fingertips on the table. The only thing that could make me change my mind about anything is Dahlia.

“Could be,” I say. “If Alexis is unhappy, Joseph could want to back out of his relationship with his daughter. It’s possible. Maybe telling her to run was supposed to be enough to make her flee?” I groan. “But she has contact with him. He calls her. It doesn’t make sense.”

I blow out a breath. “The email was sent from the Dallo house. So that brings us to Alexis and the staff. But she was gone the day the email was sent…and why would the staff care?”

I strike the staff from the spreadsheet, along with Joseph and Alexis.

“And that leaves Freddy.” I flip to the team’s notes on the little bastard. “Finance graduate. Good family. Bit of a black sheep, but we all have one of those.” I scroll through random shit that has the hallmarks of Theo written all over it. “Took a wrong turn about a year ago. He wanted Dahlia back. Ninety-three calls to her cell phone over the past seven days. Charges pending.”

If he wanted her back, why would he threaten her to leave? The odds don’t favor her running to him. It doesn’t make sense. Not really.

“But none of this makes fucking sense,” I groan again, growing agitated. “What am I missing, dammit?”

I look back through the names and hover over Alexis Dallo.

“He says he fell in love with her at first sight. Her letter said he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.” Dahlia’s words about her parents filter through my mind.

“When, exactly, did Joseph Dallo marry Alexis?” I ask, my fingertips flying across the keyboard. Newspaper articles load in seconds. “Three years ago on July twenty-second.”

My heart lodges in my throat as I search again. This time, it’s for an obituary. “Penelope Lovelace died …” I scroll down the page. Fuck. “Three years ago on March first.”

I stare at the dates on the screen. “He waited until Penelope died before he married Alexis? That’s either ironic or … not.”

Puzzle pieces snap together, but I don’t have enough to see the entire picture. But I know from experience that when too many pieces go together too easily, it’s because they belong there.

“This could mean that ol’ Joe was in love with Penelope and couldn’t move on as long as she lived.” I try to imagine being with another woman and knowing Dahlia walks the planet. “Definitely possible. Or it could mean …”

I glance at the clock. It’s late. Very late.

But fuck it. Ford knows how to silence a ringer if he doesn’t want to be woken up.

It rings twice before he answers it. “Landry.”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing calling so late? Everything okay?”

“Can’t sleep. The bed’s too soft. You?”

“Can’t sleep. No room. Ellie’s currently lying across it diagonally.”

I snort. “Can’t you buy a bigger bed?”

“Man, she’ll just jack that one, too. I love her, but she’s like sleeping with an alligator who does the death spiral randomly through the night.”

“Where do you sleep?” I ask.

“Couch.”

“You don’t have a guest room or something?”

Ford laughs. “I happily take the couch because that means she’s in my bed. And, at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.”

I glance up the stairs and grin.

“Anyway, why are you calling me at four in the morning?” he asks.

“How hard have you looked into Alexis Dallo?”

“Her background report’s squeaky clean. She’s done community service out of the kindness of her heart. Has a degree in nursing but isn’t using it right now. She was a pageant queen. I mean, she’s basically the thirty-year-old version of an All-American girl.”

I narrow my eyes, mulling this over again.

Thirty. She’s only a few years older than Dahlia.

Would Alexis be jealous of her much older husband’s love for a woman who’s so close in age they could be sisters? Would it matter that Dahlia was his daughter?

I don’t know. Some women, insecure women, can be petty over things like that. And Alexis isn’t working, so she has time on her hands.

What if … “I think you need to take a closer look.”

“What’s your working theory?”

I get to my feet and wander around the living room. The bookshelves lining the living room”s far wall are filled with books, mementos, and pictures. Multiple framed images of Lincoln and his family fill nearly every empty space on the shelves. I can almost hear their laughter through the photographs, and I wonder what this house is like when they’re all here.

Is something like that a possibility someday for a guy like me?

“Working theory,” I say, refocusing. “Dallo married Alexis around four months after Dahlia’s mom passed away.”

“And?”

“I wonder if our blushing bride knew her sugar daddy already had a baby with someone else? Hadn’t married anyone else until the love of his life passed away?”

“Okay …”

“I can’t ask Dahlia. She isn’t going to know that, and I don’t want to plant ideas in her head in case I’m wrong. If I’m completely off course, I won’t ruin their relationship over a hunch.”

“You know, it makes sense.”

I nod. “Think about it. You’re a beautiful thirty-year-old woman in the prime of your life. And you marry an old rich dude with no kids. I’m not saying she’s a gold digger. But she didn’t marry an old poor dude or an old rich dude with a great reputation.”

“Then you marry him …”

“And realize you’re splitting the inheritance. You’re riding that old cock for half.”

Ford sighs. “You might be right.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You know, I’ve been considering scheduling a meeting with Dallo. He’s busy, so he might not even want to see me. But let’s bring him into the fold and see what shakes out. Let’s see where his loyalties lie.”

“I have one request.”

“What might that be?”

I smile. “If he’s behind this, you’ll give me two minutes with him alone before you call the police.”

“Go to bed. Get some sleep.”

“Think of all the things I’ve done for your family. Remember Barrett’s election and the fight at the farm? Or when Lincoln almost got rocked by Nate Hughes? Or when Graham tried to intimidate Walker Gibson in a bar?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Two minutes, Landry, or we’re done,” I say, only half joking.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

I end the call, shut my computer, and put my mug in the dishwasher. Then I go back to bed.

Dahlia is sleeping peacefully, her sweet lips pressed together in a pout. I want to kiss them, but if I do, she’ll wake up, and we’ll fuck and …

I climb in beside her and touch my lips to hers.

Her long lashes flutter awake, and a slow smile stretches across her pink cheeks when her eyes focus.

I’d do anything for this woman. I’d do anything to keep this smile on her face, this peace in her eyes. It’s what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

“What time is it?” she asks, sleepily.

“About four.”

“Why are you up? Everything okay?”

I pull her against me, tucking her head beneath my chin. “It is now.”

“I was having a dream,” she says.

“What was it about?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

I kiss the top of her head. “Was it a good one?”

She leans back, her eyes flickering in the dim moonlight. “It was a great one. Want me to show you?”

I roll her onto her back and hover over her. Her legs wrap around my waist, her arms dangling over my shoulders.

“How did you know?” she asks, giggling.

“It was a good guess.”

I forget about my troubles and fears and what tomorrow might hold. Instead, I lose myself in Dahlia.

She might’ve been dreaming about this, but she is my dream.

I hope she understands that someday.