Chapter 16 Shawn
Beckett isn’t breathing.
She isn’t blinking.
She’s just staring straight at Lauren, her face far paler than it should be.
“No. Paul didn’t have kids,” she insists.
My chest aches, my stomach a pit of knots as I witness the array of emotions playing out over Beckett’s beautiful face.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Betrayal.
Pain.
“Well, since I’m sitting here, I’d say that’s not true,” Lauren retorts, her tone sharp as razors. The dislike she carries for Beckett is plain as day on her contorted expression.
But how can that be? How can she hate a woman she just met?
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” I demand.
“I have a paternity test to prove it,” she replies coldly. “But that’s not what matters right now.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Beckett chokes out. She reaches for the handle but struggles to open it. “How can that not matter?”
“No. You have to stay inside,” Lauren insists.
“I need air.”
“You need to stay composed,” Lauren snaps. “They’re watching everything.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, you’re already here. There’s no changing that. But if they find out you’re not who you say you are, then you’re dead. Understand?”
Beckett glares at Lauren, her entire body trembling, but she stops trying to climb out and sits back against the seat. “Explain to me how Paul had a daughter I didn’t know about.”
“To be fair, he didn’t know about me until two years before he died,” she replies.
“My mom died suddenly when I was eight, and I was sent to live with my maternal grandmother. When I was going through Mom’s things one night, I found some old pictures and letters between her and Paul.
Along with a journal entry where she said that he was the father.
According to her journals, by the time she got the courage to tell him, he was already engaged to someone else.
You,” she adds sharply. “So, when I found those, I tracked him down. I was ten when I found him.”
“Ten?” Beckett chokes out.
I can see the betrayal written all over her face, and to be honest, I’m angry for her. How could a man who pledged his life to her, for better or worse, keep something as pivotal as a child from her?
Even if things went sideways, he should have been honest. Given Beckett the chance to react the way I know she would have: with love and compassion.
“Like I said, my mom didn’t tell him I existed. They were high school sweethearts and—well—here I am.” Her gaze remains cold. Calculated. There’s no warmth reflected, though I do see her reason for the anger toward a woman she just met. Even if it’s completely unwarranted.
“Clearly, you’re not happy we’re here, so why did you send that photograph to Beckett?” I demand, trying to shift the conversation in hopes I can give Beckett some time to catch her breath.
She turns to me. “The day that photo was taken, I was here with my dad. He’d bring me with him sometimes, whenever he’d go on trips.
It was the only time we got to spend together,” she adds with another glare in Beckett’s direction.
“Anyway, I took that picture for no other reason than I was so excited to be a part of his life.”
“The day he died, I’d begged to go with him. But no matter how much I asked, he refused. The next thing I know, he’s not answering any of my text messages. I saw it on the news report the next morning, though I was so distraught that I didn’t put two and two together on the dates.”
“Text messages. There were never any text messages.” Beckett is trying to rationalize.
“He didn’t think you’d handle my existence very well,” Lauren replies. “Which is why he hid the phone he used to talk to me from you.”
“Okay, you need to watch your tone,” I counter, already infuriated that she seems to have an axe to grind against the woman whose life she’s currently tearing apart. “It’s not Beckett’s fault your dad didn’t know you existed, and it’s not her fault that he didn’t tell her.”
“No, it’s not. But it is her fault I had to be hidden like a dirty secret for the two years I did know my dad.”
“I—how? I didn’t even know about you!” Beckett exclaims. “I knew nothing.”
“And if you had known? If you’d found out that your husband already had a kid when you couldn’t have any, what would you have done?”
That does it. The blood drains from Beckett’s face, and her own ice-cold mask slips into place. “Take us back to the club. Coming here was a mistake.”
“A mistake? No. You’re already here. You have to help me solve this.”
“I don’t have to help you do anything,” she replies. “And you already said you didn’t want us here. So, you’re going to drive us back, and we’ll leave.”
“Beckett—” I start.
“No.” She settles back in the seat, completely shut down.
“Are you serious? You came all this way, and you’re not going to help me?” Lauren looks over at me like I’m going to defend her and insist we help. But I’ll back Beckett, no matter what.
“No,” Beckett says. “I’m not.” She fixes her gaze out the window, and Lauren glares at her a moment longer before turning on the motor again and flipping the UTV around to head back toward the club.
“He was wrong about you. He told me that you were this big, bad lawyer who was just getting started but already making waves. I assumed you’d want to know the truth as badly as I did.”
Beckett doesn’t respond, and we ride the rest of the way in silence.
Once she’s parked, she turns, plasters a fake smile on her face, and says, “If I were you, I’d fix your expression.
If they so much as catch a scent you’re not telling the truth, you’re going to end up just like him. ” She opens the door and climbs out.
I hesitate a moment, trying to meet Beckett’s gaze, but she slips a fake smile into place and climbs out before I can say a word.
So, I follow.
“Mr. Andrews, if you’d like more information on the security, please let me know. I’m more than happy to give you a more detailed explanation.”
“Thank you,” I reply, offering her a smile as she veers off in the other direction.
Beckett falls into step beside me, her expression neutral, as we step onto the elevators and then down the hall toward our room.
The moment we’re inside, though, and the door is closed, that mask falls—just enough for me to see the cracks beneath.
“Talk to me,” I tell her.
“About what? How my marriage was a lie?” she snaps. Tears fill her eyes. Cheeks red, she jabs her finger at me. “How I gave myself completely to a man I didn’t even know?”
“He didn’t know about her at first.” I try to defend him, not for him but for her. Because she doesn’t deserve to feel inadequate because some man made a poor choice over a decade ago.
“No, but he found out. She was ten, Shawn. Ten years old. He didn’t think I would understand?
” Her bottom lip quivers, and tears stream down her cheeks.
“I would have—” Her voice breaks, and she takes a ragged breath.
“I would have understood because she was his. I would have embraced her. Loved her. And he told her—” She sways, and I rush forward to steady her. “He told her we couldn’t have a baby.”
“She had no right to say what she did to you,” I snarl, my own anger resurfacing. In the moment, I’d been so focused on keeping us composed so we’d stay alive that I didn’t let myself really feel the weight of the words Lauren was slinging toward Beckett.
But they’re crushing me now.
“Did he really see me that way?” she asks. “Am I so awful that he didn’t think I could handle the truth? That I wouldn’t love his daughter?”
I cup her face now, using my thumbs to brush the tears from her cheeks.
“Listen to me, Beckett. Him keeping the truth from you had nothing to do with you. Do you hear me? He was likely trying to cover up his own guilt for not knowing she existed. No, I’m not going to pretend I understand his logic because I don’t.
He had no right to keep her from you. Just like he didn’t have the right to tell her it was because you couldn’t have children. None of this is your fault.”
She covers her mouth with a trembling hand. “It was me. The whole time. I’m why we couldn’t—” Her eyes fill. “That’s why he didn’t want to keep trying. Because he knew.”
My heart shatters as I bear witness to her pain.
“Breathe, Beckett,” I tell her as I bring her in and rest my forehead against hers. “None of his decisions were your fault.” God, how do I make her see? How do I help her, Lord? Please wrap her in Your arms. Please, God. She’s spiraling, and she needs You. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.
Beckett’s sobs tear at me, but I hold her through them, wishing I could do something—anything—to take away her pain.
“Lord, help me,” she whispers so quietly I can barely hear it.
“He’s with you,” I remind her softly. “Here, now.” Guiding her over toward the couch, I take a seat first, then pull her down beside me. She curls against me, kicking off her heels and bringing her feet up as she leans against me.
I wrap my arm around her, loving that I get to hold her even though I hate that this opportunity comes in a moment of her pain.
What kind of man would keep such a secret from his wife?
And, given what I know about this place, I’d say we’re only hitting the tip of the iceberg he left behind.
What else was he into?
I became a cop to find the truth. But if it keeps breaking Beckett, do I really want to find it for her?
A knock at the door pulls my attention, and Beckett withdraws. Without a word, she gets to her feet and heads into the bedroom, closing the door while I cross the living room and peer outside.
If it’s Lauren, I’m prepared to handle it the way I should have out on that airstrip.
Instead, the guard who was stationed at the door is just outside. I glance around for a weapon of any kind, hating the fact that all I can grab is a heavy paperweight from the desk near the door.
Heart pounding, I keep it out of view as I answer the door. “Can I help you?”
“You and your wife have been invited to dinner. I’m here to escort you down.” His tone is emotionless, his gaze intense.
“We’re not hungry. It’s been a long day, but thank you—”
“It’s not an option,” he replies, shoving back his jacket and revealing the weapon holstered there. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get ready.” Reaching forward, he closes the door, and I pause a moment, my heart hammering.
Did Lauren get so angry she told them who we are?
The bedroom doors remain closed, and I scan the room for any other way out. We’re high enough up that escaping through the window isn’t possible. Even if we did make it out, they’d catch us before we ever left the property.
We’re trapped.
Sardines in a can.
As the anxiety begins to take root, I bow my head and close my eyes. Turning to God in moments of trouble is something I’m still getting used to. It used to be that I’d try to face it all alone. Until I realized that I’m nothing without Him.
“Lord, we need You. Please be with us tonight and keep us safe. Please, Lord. I pray this in the name of Jesus, Amen.”