Chapter 35
Ethan
Pride. Rage. Want.
Annabelle is frightened half to death, hunted by a man who has already taken everything from her once, and still she walks back to her job with her shoulders back because she refuses to be weak in front of him. In front of us. In front of herself.
Not anymore.
We did that.
We brought her back.
She knows it, deep down. Even if she won’t admit it to us, she knows herself it was us. I feel a strange sense of pride in that. “I’ll stay with you,” I say to her.
She nods and opens the door to the library. “I need the bathroom first. You’ll have to wait by the counter.”
I want to argue with her, but fighting with Margaret over joining Annabelle in the staff toilet isn’t on my to-do list. “I’ll be waiting. If you need me, shout.”
“It’s just the toilet.”
“And the air con guy was just the air con guy, until he wasn’t.”
She gives me a grimace, then moves around the counter and through a door marked Staff Access Only.
I watch her go until the door swings shut behind her.
Margaret peers over her glasses at me from behind the desk. “Back again?”
I give her a pleasant smile. “Couldn’t stay away.”
“That line probably works better on women under seventy.”
I almost laugh. “Noted.”
She studies me with open suspicion. “You’re not here for a book.”
“No.”
“For her, then.”
I don’t bother denying it. “That obvious?”
“Painfully.” She turns back to her computer. “If you upset her, I’ll hit you with the large print biographies.”
“That is a threat I take seriously.”
“Do,” she says, lips pursed. “She’s been through enough.”
“I know.” I breathe out in relief as Annabelle returns and gives me a smile, shooing me away. I move off, and go to sit at one of the tables and pick up a magazine on sewing from about ten years ago.
Annabelle notices my reading choice and snickers behind her hand. At least she has the capability to laugh.
Time ticks away as I watch her work. I’ve read three magazines when my phone buzzes. I pull it out.
Withheld number.
Obsession looks good on you.
I roll my eyes. “Fuck you,” I mutter.
Another buzz.
Tell Callan I saw him before.
“You tell him, dickface.”
Am I getting to you yet?
“I’m going to kill you, so yeah, I’d say you are.”
“Who are you talking to?” Annabelle asks, wheeling her trolley behind me, almost making me jump. It is something I will deny to my grave.
I turn the screen face down on the table before she can get a proper look. “Spam.”
Her eyes narrow at once. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. You’re just getting annoyingly good at reading me.”
Annabelle parks the trolley beside the table and plants a hand on her hip. Colour has come back into her cheeks since lunch, but the strain is still there around her eyes. “Was it him?”
I hold her stare for a beat, then nod once. “Yeah.”
Her face drains again. “What did he say?”
I glance towards Margaret. She is pretending not to listen and failing. A man in the periodicals corner turns a page too loudly. Everyone in this place feels like a potential witness now. Or bait. Or collateral.
“Nothing worth repeating,” I say quietly. “More pathetic needling.”
“That means it got to you.”
“Everything about him gets to me.”
She exhales, shaky but controlled. “Show me.”
I don’t want to. I want to put my fist through his face, not his messages. But she is done being managed without consent, and I am done making that mistake.
I unlock the phone and hand it over.
Her eyes scan the screen. Her mouth tightens. Her throat works. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Exactly.”
Then she reads the last message, and her gaze lifts. “This is about you, not me.”
“It was discussed as such.”
“I know, but now I’m saying it louder for those in the back. I’m collateral damage.”
“No, you aren’t. You are in this up to your neck. Just as we are. Jack is killing two birds with one stone. So to speak.”
“I hate him,” she spits out.
“So do we.”
“Do you have a number for him?”
“It was withheld.”
“No, I mean from before. He’s your dad, surely you had a contact number for him.”
“Annabelle,” Margaret calls over.
She looks over. “Yes, I know.” She looks back at me and gestures with her head before she pushes her trolley behind a stack of romance novels.
I wait until Margaret isn’t looking and then slip after her. I stop in front of her trolley, arms crossed. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I want to call his phone. See if he answers.”
“You are out of your mind,” I hiss.
“Maybe. But humour me.”
“And what exactly are you going to say if he picks up?”
Her hand shakes as she holds it out. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
I stare at her hand and then at her face.
She means it.
That stubborn set to her mouth tells me she is two seconds from doing something reckless with or without my help, and I know her well enough already to understand that if I refuse outright, she will find another way.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Her blue eyes flash.
“I won’t hand you a loaded gun and smile while you point it at your own head.”
“It’s a phone call, Ethan.”
“It’s Jack.”
“That’s the point.”
I take a slow breath and force myself not to raise my voice. The last thing I need is Margaret marching over here while Annabelle tries to call the man who murdered her mother from the historical romance section.
“You don’t get him on the line before we plan it,” I say. “You don’t do anything impulsive with him. He lives for impulsive. He feeds on panic.”
She lowers her hand by an inch, but only by an inch. “I’m not panicking.”
“You are absolutely panicking.”
“No. I’m angry. Help me use it.”
I look at her for a long moment and see the truth.
This is not fear speaking. It is fury. Grief with teeth. The part of her that has finally stopped lying down and letting life happen to her.
It doesn’t make the idea any less dangerous.
“It doesn’t happen here,” I say.
She lets out a breath through her nose. “So that’s not a no.”
“It is a no for this exact second, in this exact place, while you’re standing in the middle of your shift looking like you want to set fire to the shelves.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“It’s accurate.”
Her mouth nearly curves, but it drops again. “I need to do something.”
I move closer, keeping my voice low. “You are doing something. You came back. You’re standing here. You’re not hiding. That matters.”
“It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“Nothing will until he’s dead.”
The words land between us, hard and honest. Her eyes search mine, and I let her see all of it. The certainty. The violence. The promise.
She swallows. “Then let me help.”
“You are helping.”
“No. I mean properly.” Her fingers curl around the handle of the trolley until her knuckles pale. “I spent years wanting his name.”
“And now that you have it, you want to sink your teeth into him. I get it.”
“Do you?” she asks. Her voice is quiet, but it cuts. “Because you were raised with him. You know what he is. I had nothing. Just grief and police reports and nightmares. I want one thing from him before you kill him.”
I study her face. Pale, angry, alive. That last part hits me hardest. She is no longer drifting. She is fighting. It is beautiful. It is also dangerous as fuck.
“What thing?” I ask.
“I want him to hear my voice and know I know.” Her chin lifts. “I want him to know my mum wasn’t forgotten. I want him to know I’m not hiding.”
A dark, possessive pride ignites in my blood. Of course she wants that. She wants to look into the abyss and make it blink first.
“Not here,” I say again. “At home, where you’re safe, and we are all there.”
She hesitates but nods. “Okay. I’d better get back to work before Margaret comes to find me.”
“Go. I’ll be here.”
She slips away, and I stay where I am, though every instinct in me wants to keep her in sight every second.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket as I return to my chair. Jack’s messages crawl under my skin. He wants our attention. He wants me angry. He wants Annabelle agitated enough to make a mistake.
He is getting one of those things.
Annabelle wheels the trolley into the next aisle and starts shelving books with determined little movements that look calm until you notice how hard she is pushing each one into place. I know fury when I see it. I know what it looks like when it has nowhere to go.
My phone buzzes again.
I already hate what I’m going to see before I look.
She’s pretty.
The room goes very still.
Pretty. Fucking cunt. I’ll make him say it again while I slit his throat, and he can choke on it.
Putting my phone in my jacket pocket, I sit back and stare at the door, wondering how I can possibly delay her talking to Jack without making it seem like I’m controlling what she does.
Annabelle is determined, but I know this isn’t going to give her the closure she wants.
It’s only going to make it worse.