All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)(6)

I can’t seem to contain the accusation in my voice as I say, “You talked to him forever.”

“I hung up right after you left the room. I was on my way down here when Blake called to check on us.”

“Is there news on Ava?”

“None—which is why he wanted to make sure we were here, not in California. And apparently Mark’s not pleased, and not waiting for Walker Security or the police to deliver results. Blake thinks he’s looking for revenge against anyone he perceives as having hurt Rebecca. He seems to think Ryan’s a main target. Mark believes Ryan was involved in Rebecca’s death, but there’s no evidence.”

“I think he was, too,” I agree, thinking of the way Rebecca wrote about Ryan in her journals, and about some of my interactions with him. “But I don’t want Mark to do something he’ll regret.”

“Blake wants me to talk to him before Mark does something he can’t undo.”

“Are you going to?”

“I can’t talk him out of what I’d do myself in his place. I promise you, baby, if someone hurt you, the only thing that would keep me sane was trying to see justice served. Let him have his sanity.” I open my mouth to object and he adds, “He’s smart, Sara. He’ll be careful.”

The doorbell rings.

“That’s probably the grocery order I put in yesterday.” He kisses my forehead and gently moves me away from him, departing for the door. “I don’t envy the delivery person in this rain.”

I tighten the belt of my robe and go in pursuit, following Chris through the living area to the stairs in case he needs me to carry some of the bags. Chris is just opening the door when I arrive, and I frown as he bends down and picks up a large yellow envelope that’s dripping with rain. He shuts the door, reading something on the outside of the envelope before he looks inside and scrubs his jaw.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The contract and check I left Tristan last night. And”—he turns the envelope upside down and lets a set of keys fall into his hand—“the keys to Amber’s apartment that I was paying for.”

My stomach rolls. “I forgot you bought her an apartment. Wasn’t he living with her?”

“Yes, a detail I forgot and should have remembered. I assume, from the keys, that he’s moved out.”

“Seems that way. Is there a note?”

He turns the envelope so I can read the words baise-toi written in huge letters on the outside. “It’s French for ‘f*ck you,’” Chris explains. “Only he’s f*cking himself instead, in some demented attempt to drive home my guilt over Amber.”

My stomach rolls again, and I know he’s right. Tristan is like Mark right now, driven by his own guilt and heartache, seeking revenge. And he wants it badly enough to hurt himself in order to hurt Chris. I just hope this is where it ends.

? ? ?

Forty-five minutes later, Chris and I have received our groceries and put them away before he drags me to the shower, where I am thoroughly f*cked under a hot stream of water and then ordered to dress. In the process, I attempt to convince Chris to call Mark by reasoning that Tristan and Mark are alike, both in too much pain to be reasonable. Chris tunes me out, taking a call from his attorney, so I try to call Mark myself and end up leaving a message.

Shortly thereafter, despite my further protests, we end up headed to The Script to talk to Tristan again, only to find the shop dark with a Closed sign in front. Our next stop is Amber’s apartment, a gray brick building that’s only a few blocks from our house. We arrive at the ground-level unit and pull into the parking garage. The doors close behind us and I can hear rain pattering on the exterior steel casing. Suddenly, it’s like we are in a box and the air is being sucked out.

I turn to Chris, my hand settling on the arm of his black waterproof Polo jacket that matches the red one I’m wearing. “Let’s not do this.”

His hand covers mine as he stares at the door leading into the apartment. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, baby, it’s that what I don’t face now, I face later.” He doesn’t wait for any further objections on my part, opening his door to exit. I quickly follow suit, hugging myself as the cold seeps through my jacket and jeans. But as Chris stares at the door of the apartment, I am certain any chill he feels has nothing to do with the weather.

As seconds tick by—one, two, ten—I can almost taste the tears Chris struggles with deep in his soul. I wait, respecting the vibe that tells me to be with him, but not suffocate him.

He suddenly moves, entering the apartment, and I follow him into the empty laundry area, shutting the door behind me. We enter a connected, small-but-elegant kitchen with beautiful navy blue and teal splashboards complemented by granite counters. To our right is a cutout bar overlooking an empty living room with a large stucco fireplace in one corner.

Chris leans on the counter, palms down, staring at the empty space. His big body is like stone, his expression all hard lines, his jaw a solid line of tension. Everything about him is withdrawn, and I tentatively settle my hand on his back.

For several seconds I feel the unmoving flesh beneath my hand, but slowly, he seems to relax beneath my palm, breaking the silence as he does. “He knew I’d come here, and he made damned sure every trace of her was gone.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s exactly what he did.”