Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
She’d been in that bathroom for a while. Too long.
I could hear the ragged sounds beyond the door and knew exactly what was happening, even if she was trying to be quiet.
“Ms. Hayward?” I tapped on the door, my voice low.
She didn’t answer.
I waited, unsure. “Laurel?”
Nothing.
“Wayne?” I asked of the man working a desk nearby.
The guy looked displeased. “Dwayne.”
“Did they search the suitcase brought over from the Opulent?”
He shrugged and his attention returned to his computer screen. I was too preoccupied with my concern for my witness to give Dwayne any attitude. The girl had been through hell, and I could sense how unstable it had made her. What if she had something in that suitcase she was using to numb herself? Or worse, to hurt herself?
“Laurel.” My voice was firm enough I even drew Dwayne’s attention. I tried the doorknob, but it was locked.
“There’s a box,” he said.
“I know,” I snapped. I typed in the code, overriding the lock from the outside. “Hey, I’m coming in.”
4
LAUREL
Once I was alone in the tiny bathroom, I thought overwhelm would finally find me, but I continued to feel numb. Unable to process anything. My hands moved without thought to strip off the ruined dress and then pull on my street clothes from the night prior.
The water from the faucet was cold and soothing on my irritated palms as I washed my hands. Something in my subconscious told me not to look in the mirror, but when I was foolish enough to ignore it, I wished to God I hadn’t.
It was the bruise ringing my neck that broke through the wall holding my emotions at bay.
If I hadn’t said no to Seth, if I’d complied and gotten in his trunk, the man in the parking garage would still be alive. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and angry, and spilled down my face. It began as a trickle and ramped up until they poured from me in wracking sobs.
A knock on the door couldn’t stop it, nor did the concern in the marshal’s voice. I tried to get hold of myself, wiping furiously at my cheeks, but the tears were a force I was powerless against. They blurred my reflection and made me shake so violently I could barely stand.
On some level, I knew the marshal was coming in, but he had the door open before I could stop him. Not that I’d be able to, anyway. I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t stop the debilitating tears.
He assessed the situation instantly, clinically. A decision was made and he stepped in, shutting the door so we were trapped together in the tight space. His voice was soft and uneven. “It’s all right.”
“Get . . . out!” Those short words were all I could muster between rasps. I did not cry in front of other people, and doing so in front of this stranger was horrifying.
“Take a deep breath. You’re going to be okay.”
I turned away and closed my eyes, shutting him out. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what my body language screamed at him. But pretending he didn’t exist seemed to help.
“Please leave.” My voice was hoarse.
“You’re safe. It’s going to be okay,” he repeated.
The absurd statement annoyed me. “That guy he murdered in the parking garage? That was my fault. It’s not going to be okay.”
He made a face then wiped the expression away. “That man’s death is not on your hands. Not your fault.”
I wanted to believe him, and on the surface I knew he was right. I hadn’t pulled the trigger. But would the guilt, deserved or not, ever really fade?
It left me with no choice but to focus on the man in front of me. He was in his late thirties. Tall, broad. A wall of muscle with a few days of scruff. My attention had been drawn to him from the moment he’d appeared outside the conference room, despite the uneasy feeling developing in my chest. There was something about him.
Something dark that whispered danger.
The sleeves of his white dress shirt were pushed up to the elbows, but perhaps that was done to downplay the wrinkles that covered every inch of the fabric. It looked like it had been picked off the floor after being stomped over and thrown on in a rush. No tie. I assumed he wasn’t a necktie kind of guy, anyway. This man had a less office-like look.
Hard. Gritty. More muscle and force than brains and logic.
If I were honest with myself, I’d admit he was incredibly attractive. I’d gone through enough guys of a similar kind for my sister to label my type as “bad boy.” By God, if Jason Dunn didn’t look the definition of a bad boy.
There was no wedding ring on his left hand.
“You need another moment?” he asked, raking his fingers through his short, dark hair.