Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
My brows knit together. “What secret?”
“That you’re a good man who wants to save the world.”
I laugh, the sound coming out hollower than I intended. “Hardly.” It’s the one thing no one could ever accuse me of being. “I’m motivated by being the best, by beating my competitors and making a lot of money.”
“Hmm,” is her only response. The starters arrive, and the silence between us isn’t as tense as before. “This is delicious,” she coos, holding up a bacon-wrapped scallop for me to taste.
I don’t miss the flash of heat in her eyes when I grab her wrist and wrap my lips around her fingers before taking the scallop. “Delicious.”
Next, a platter of lobster and crab cakes arrives, perfectly golden and garnished with a vibrant citrus aioli. She seems more at ease, which eases my tension. “I feel like we spend so much time together, but we’ve stopped getting to know each other. Tell me about your parents.”
That’s unexpected. I pause, taken aback. Why is she asking about my parents? “Not much to tell,” I answer automatically. “They died when I was young.”
“Right. Did you have a family friend like Jay to take you in?”
“What does that matter?” Her question puts me on edge, and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck prickle. What’s she getting at?
She shrugs, clearly disappointed in my answer. “I’m just trying to get to know you better. I feel as if I’m always going on and on about my life, but you’re so tight-lipped about yours.”
“Because I don’t like to talk about it,” I growl, suddenly angry.
“Damn. Okay.” Her vulnerability vanishes as she reaches for her wineglass, filling it up and taking another sip before she returns her attention to the food on the table. Only the food on the table.
I wait her out. Women love to talk about anything and everything. Except my Frankie isn’t like other women. She’s tougher. More determined than most. I know what I have to do. A half-truth is better than a lie. “We were raised by a middle-aged couple who took us in.”
“Really.” She says in a tone that indicates it’s not a question.
“What’s going on Francesca?”
She sighs heavily before shaking her head. “This is what’s going on, Damien. Look at this and tell me about the middle-aged couple who took you in and raised you.”
Frankie slides a photo across the table, and the sight of it knocks the wind from my chest. I do my damnedest to hide my reaction, but the shock is there.
How the hell did she find this?
She’s close. Closer than I ever allowed her to get. I’ve underestimated her, and that’s a mistake I don’t intend to repeat.
“What’s this?” I ask, feigning nonchalance, though my voice is tight.
“It’s a photo of you. At Hope House.”
I lean in, studying the yellowing image of me as a teen, dressed in the ratty clothes of the group home, my eyes hollow even then. The photo is damning, but I can’t let her see that.
“Where?” I ask in a complete lie, my voice laced with irritation.
“Hope House. A group home for children that has since closed down.”
I meet her gaze, my irritation growing. “What makes you think I was ever in a group home?”
But Frankie doesn’t back down. Her brown eyes, usually so warm, are now sharp, calculating. She’s not here for a simple conversation. She’s here to challenge me.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out another photo, sliding it across the table with deliberate slowness. My heart skips a beat as I look down at the image. It’s of a young boy, his face half in shadow, but I know exactly who he is.
Connor Donovan.
He was found dead a few months ago. By me.
“Do you know who this is?” she asks, her voice soft, almost gentle, but there’s an edge to it I can’t ignore.
I look back up at her. “Should I?” My mind races, searching for the right words to deflect her, to turn this around.
“I’ve been piecing together details about Hope House,” she says, her voice steady. “These photos are just a part of the puzzle.”
Shit.
“I don’t know what you think you’ve found, Frankie,” I say. “But whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me. I have no idea what Hope House is, nor do I know who these children are.”
“Alrighty then. Can we get back to dinner?”
I lean forward and take her hands in mine, giving them both a supportive squeeze. “I’m sorry, Francesca. I know you’ve been working long and hard on this serial killer case and maybe you thought you had a lead. But I have no idea what any of this is.”
Her eyes go soft, and she nods slowly. “Okay, I just thought—”
“It’s okay. Maybe the case is getting to your head. Maybe we need to have another weekend getaway to help you recharge your batteries. One where we both sleep at night.”