22. Delaney
DELANEY
From the bedroom, I hear the front door close.
He’s gone.
No hesitation. No lingering. No second look. Like what just happened doesn’t require one.
That should bother me. But it doesn’t. What bothers me is how easily I let him leave.
I sit there for a moment, still on the edge of the bed, my pulse not quite steady, my breath still uneven.
I feel no regret. Not even close. The mattress is still warm from where he lay. I can still feel him.
I shut that down and push to my feet.
I don’t look in the mirror. I already know what I’ll see. Naked body. Flushed skin. Swollen lips. A woman who just let Samson Vexley pin her to a wall, nearly choke her, and take what she didn’t stop him from taking.
Go lock your door.
I hear the words in Samson’s voice. In fact, I’m surprised as hell he didn’t say them before he left.
My pulse kicks again. Not from fear. From something else. Something I refuse to name.
Turn away from it.
Turn away from him.
Focus.
That’s what matters.
Not Samson. Not what just happened. Not the reason he was here.
And not the reason I didn’t stop him.
I throw on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top and then return to my living area where I lock the front door and then flip open my laptop. The screen lights up to the same notes I left open last night.
The marina.
The contractor.
The network of companies that doesn’t make sense until you stop treating it like coincidence.
I hover my fingers over the keys.
Samson didn’t answer me. But he didn’t deny it.
I replay it in my head.
You don’t want that answer.
Not I didn’t do it.
Not you’re wrong.
Not even it’s not what you think.
Just—
You don’t want that answer.
I begin to type, to pull threads together. The marina redevelopment. The contractor tied to high-end security installations. Shell entities layered just deep enough to blur ownership without hiding it completely.
It can’t be random. It can’t be. It was all deliberate.
Which means Halstead wasn’t in the wrong place.
He was in the right place at the wrong time.
I lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
The bartender said it escalated too fast. Like it was already going to happen.
My pulse steadies as the pieces start to align. This didn’t start when Halstead arrived. It didn’t start when anyone saw him. It was already in motion. And whatever he was looking at mattered.
It mattered enough to get him killed.
That changes everything.
Because if that’s true, then Halstead didn’t cause it. He interrupted it.
I go still.
And if he interrupted it…
Then whatever was supposed to happen that night was meant for someone else.
And if Halstead wasn’t supposed to be there…
Then who was?
I look at my notes again. At Samson’s name. At the timeline. And something colder settles in.
Because now I’m not just asking who killed him. I’m asking what was supposed to happen that night. And why it didn’t go that way.
My body still hasn’t fully calmed. I can still feel him. Still feel his lips on my flesh, on my most intimate parts.
I ignore it. Or try to, anyway. It’s not relevant or useful.
Because he didn’t stop me.
He warned me.
He pushed.
But he never shut it down.
Not when I asked.
Not when I pushed.
Not even after—
I stop that thought before it finishes.
It doesn’t matter why. Only that he didn’t. Which means one of two things.
He can’t. Or he won’t.
“Which one are you?” I whisper.
Then it dawns on me that I don’t need an answer. At least not yet.
Samson Vexley is a part of this, but he’s not the whole.
And if I follow him—really follow him—he will lead me somewhere bigger.
Good.
That’s exactly where I’m going.