Page 130 of Played
He tosses the phone onto the couch, exhaling hard. "The investigator I hired to look into things?" Julian's jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Completely useless. The guy's been following dead ends for weeks now, chasing his own tail while wasting my money and producing absolutely nothing of value."
I set down the marker. "What dead ends?"
"Daniel's movements before everything happened. I wanted to know if there was anything—anything—connecting him toClaudia disappearing." He drops into the chair across from me, elbows on his knees. "This guy couldn't find shit."
My stomach twists. "You think Daniel really did something to her?"
"Don't you?"
I do. God help me, I absolutely do. Those text messages exchanged between Claudia and Dylan keep replaying in my mind—the desperation in her words, the fear she must have felt.
And then there's the way Daniel systematically controlled every aspect of her life, manipulating and isolating her in exactly the same calculated way he'd tried to control me. The parallels are impossible to ignore. And the timing of her disappearance, how it all lined up so perfectly with when she was finally ready to break free from his grip—it's too much to be mere coincidence.
"Yeah," I say. "I think he did."
Julian leans back, staring at the ceiling. "Then I'm going to find out myself. Because the cops aren't doing anything, this investigator's worthless, and Daniel's lying in a hospital bed while everyone treats him like the victim."
"Julian—"
"I'm not letting this go, Liza. If he hurt that girl, if he's the reason she's missing..." He meets my eyes, something fierce burning there. "He deserves to pay for that too."
I should tell him to stop, to let the police handle it, to not make things worse—that's what the rational part of my brain is screaming at me to do. The responsible thing would be to discourage him, to remind him that vigilante justice could land him in serious trouble, that interfering with a potential investigation could have consequences neither of us are prepared to face.
But even as those thoughts form, they feel hollow and meaningless. The anger burning in his voice—that raw, righteous fury—it mirrors the exact same rage that's beensimmering inside me ever since I pieced together what Daniel really is. Since I realized what he's capable of. And when I open my mouth to speak, to offer some word of caution or restraint, nothing comes out. All I can manage is a slow, deliberate nod of agreement.
"I feel the same way."
CHAPTER FORTY
The sharp trill of the phone cuts through the early morning silence at seven o'clock, jolting us both from sleep with its insistent, unwelcome noise. My eyes fly open, disoriented for a moment in the dim gray light filtering through Julian's bedroom curtains.
Beside me, Julian groans softly, his warm body shifting against mine as he reaches blindly across the nightstand, his long fingers patting around until they find his phone. He lifts it close to his face, those beautiful dark eyes still heavy-lidded and unfocused as he squints at the glowing screen, trying to make out who would be calling at this ungodly hour.
"Mark?" His voice is rough with sleep. He sits up, suddenly alert. "What? When?"
My heart immediately kicks into overdrive, hammering against my ribcage with sharp, insistent beats. I push myself up on one elbows, my eyes fixed on Julian's face as I watch the color literally drain from his features, his warm brown skin taking on an ashen, grayish pallor that makes my stomach clench with dread.
"Okay. Yeah. I understand." He ends the call with a quiet click, his hands visibly trembling—actually shaking—as he carefully sets the phone back down on the nightstand, the device clattering slightly against the wood despite his deliberate movements.
"Julian?"
"Daniel's dead."
The words hang in the air between us. I blink, not sure I heard right.
"What?"
"He died last night. Complications from the spinal injury." His voice sounds hollow, distant. "The charges are now manslaughter."
My breath catches. Manslaughter. That word lands like a punch to the gut.
Daniel is dead.
I should feel something clear, something definitive. But instead, a chaotic mix of emotions crashes through me all at once.
Relief floods my system first—warm, immediate, undeniable. He'll never grab me in a parking garage again. Never send threatening letters. Never hurt Julian. Never terrorize anyone else. That bastard is finally gone, and part of me wants to dance, wants to celebrate.
Then guilt slams into me for feeling that way. A man is dead. A human life, ended at thirty-eight. That's young. Too young, really, no matter what kind of monster he became.
