Page 126 of Secret Obsession
My brain is going on overload, and I think I’m about two seconds away from a panic attack. I focus on my breathing, inhaling and exhaling. Andnothow much I wish I could drink half a bottle of whiskey to dull my nerves.
We’re talking about murder. He was tied up in my living room, and an intention to rape doesn’t justify homicide.
I’ve been sleeping with a killer—and I haven’t cared one damn bit.
“Willow?”
Focus. “Detective.”
“You look a little ill.”
“Well, you just told me you think I’m being targeted by… a psychopath,” I splutter. “Of course I seem ill—I feel like I’m about to throw up on your polished shoes.”
She inches backward. “Of course.”
“When will the officers to watch me be here?”
“Within the hour.”
I fold my arms over my stomach. “Okay. Well… if there’s anything else?”
The car is fully up on the flatbed now, and the worker has hopped back up into the driver’s seat.
The detective watches him pull away, rumbling down the street, and finally shakes her head. “No. I’ll be in touch.”
Great.
I leave her standing on the curb and hurry back inside. The guys left almost two hours ago, just as the sun was rising. I’m left with a choice: I can ruin Miles’ concentration at his game and tell him what the detective told me, or I can keep it to myself for a little while. At least until they’re back.
I lock the door and go straight upstairs, into the bathroom. I need a hot shower to wash away my horror… and to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
He was asking about his brother. Somehow, he found out where his brother went and thinks that we’re the suitable lead. Maybe he’s exhausted all his other options. But instead of questions, he went for intimidation.
The dead guy’s brother is hunting us.
Not justus. Me.
37
MILES
“You look worried,” Greyson calls. He passes me the puck.
I stop it with my stick and pass it over to Steele.
We arrived an hour ago. Most of the team is off doing whatever, since we have most of the afternoon to ourselves, but we decided to stretch our legs on the ice. The hotel we’re staying at is attached to the arena. It’s not like sneaking over and lacing up washard.
I don’t often get to skate without the pads. And I’ve borrowed one of Knox’s sticks, which is taped weird as shit.
Whatever.
Knox has his other stick, and he intercepts Steele’s pass to Greyson. He takes the puck down and around the goal, coming zooming back toward us.
The urge to thrust my stick out and trip him is building, but I refrain. Barely.
“What’s up, baby brother?” Knox skids to a halt in front of me, the puck already sailing toward Greyson. Well,pastGreyson. He skates after it in a hurry.
“You’re pouting,” Knox adds.
