Page 78 of Temptation
His head turned toward her.
“He’s grieving. He’s in pain.”
“He was hurting you.”
Her wrist ached, and she’d felt the bones grinding together when Adam had tightened his grip on her.
“I-I’m sorry.” A stammered apology from Adam. “I didn’t mean—” He broke off. “Bridget didn’t get out.” His body seemed to deflate.
She pulled on Preston’s arm. But he didn’t step back. He did lean toward Adam. “Grief is never a reason to hurt Sloane. Put your hand on her again like that, and we will have a problem.” Preston let him go. He tucked Sloane back into the vehicle while Adam stumbled away.
Sloane wrapped her arms around her stomach as Preston climbed in the Range Rover. With careful hands, he put the blue blanket back around her.
Frankie settled behind the wheel. For a moment, they just stared at the scene.
Then Frankie cleared his throat. “Didn’t…didn’t quite understand what it was like. I mean, I knew what happened to you, boss, but, uh, seeing it firsthand…Digging up the dirt. Finding the coffin. Seeing the scratch marks…” He shook his head. “The bastard has to be stopped. That’s just some twisted bullshit.” He cranked the Range Rover. “That poor woman.”
“He will be stopped.” Preston’s flat reply. Then, lower, rasping, “I stopped him before, and I’ll do it again.”
And Sloane knew that Preston had just confessed. It was a confession that she hadn’t thought that he’d make. Not to her. Not to anyone. But…
Sloane believed he’d just confessed to killing his father.
Because the gunshot wound to the back hadn’t killed Mitchell Donahue.
It had been the broken neck that had sent him to hell.
Chapter Eighteen
The nightmares wouldn’t leave him alone. So Preston stood in the den, and he stared out of the windows of his home. He watched the lightning streak across the sky, illuminating the mountains. Rain continued to pour down in heavy streams. The forecast called for more rain until the early morning hours.
Bridget Russell’s crime scene would be a mess by morning. Finding any evidence in the muck would be nearly impossible. Any tire tracks or footprints would be long gone.
He stared at the mountains, but in his head, he saw Bridget. Her still body. As soon as I pulled up the first slat of wood and Noble shined his light on her face, I knew. I knew.
He’d been too late. She’d died, trapped in that coffin. She’d tried to claw her way out, but she’d failed.
Too late.
But when he’d gone home, when he’d tried to sleep, as soon as Preston closed his eyes, he’d been right back in those woods. Only in the vision that liked to now torment him, the woman in the coffin wasn’t Bridget. When he ripped away the broken slat of wood, when the rain water poured down into the coffin, Bridget hadn’t been there.
Sloane had been inside the coffin. A still, pale Sloane. Dead.
He’d woken up from the nightmare with her name on his lips.
Lightning flashed.
In that moment, he saw his own reflection in the glass of the window. I look too much like that sonofabitch. Like his father. The Last Breath Killer. Same hard jaw. Same sharp nose. Same hair.
Same killer instinct.
Sloane had been right in her assessment. Mitchell had put him in that box in the ground because he’d wanted Preston to face his own darkness. To be like him.
A killer.
In the end, Mitchell had gotten exactly what he wanted.
Be careful what you wish for.
