Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(12)

“What’s your name?” he asks, giving me the once-over again. This time it has a critical edge to it, like he’s trying to decide if I’m worthy.

“Vera Swain.”

“The new client.” He straightens. “Sorry.”

I give him the same slow perusal he gave me. He’s got the I’m a f*ckup thing down pat, from his shoulder-length hair to his scuffed skater shoes. He doesn’t look employable, so he must be somebody’s boyfriend or son.

He sticks out his hand. “I’m Leo Nash.”

I was right. Cora’s boyfriend and the owner’s son. His handshake is brief and dry.

He motions toward the room where Beau’s laughter came from. “Beau’s in there.”

No shit, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut and follow him into the room. Cora stands behind Beau, who is sitting at a desk. Beau points to something on the computer screen in front of him. She props her arm on his shoulder as she leans closer to the monitor. She mumbles something that has Beau wiping at a smile.

“Beau. Vera Swain’s here to see you,” Leo interrupts.

Beau glances up and releases the grin he tamped down. “Hey. Come in. I see you met Leo.”

I nod.

“Beau’s done some really good work on your sister’s case,” Cora says, giving Beau a look of pride. “He’s better at pulling stuff off the Internet than Leo and me combined.”

“Good,” Leo says. “Does that mean I don’t have to do it anymore?”

Cora shakes her head. “You’re not getting off the hook.”

“You know, it just occurred to me that your apartment is empty right now…” Leo says with a sly wink.

Beau clamps his hands over his ears. “Dude. That’s my sister.”

Cora laughs as she gives Beau a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you later.” Then, to me, “Good night, Vera.”

“Good night.”

Leo nods at me. “Nice meeting you.” He throws an arm across Cora’s shoulders. “Later, Beau.”

“Lock the front door, will you?” Beau asks.

“You got it,” Leo says.

When they’re gone, Beau gets up and brings the other chair around to his side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

When we’re settled, he works the keyboard, opening a document with saved links.

He smells good. I forgot about that. His scent comes with the memory of our conversation in the diner and the feel of his hands around mine. He’s steady and strong in a way I’ll never be. I try to imagine depending on that strength, leaning in to it and wrapping myself in it like a blanket. I’m not good with relying on someone else. I haven’t come across very many trustworthy people. Beau could change that. If he has an agenda, I have yet to spot it. I’ve gotten pretty good at sorting out what people want and what they want from me. It’s always take, take, take. But not with Beau.

I pull in a slow, deep breath, inhaling him like a druggie getting a fix. His fingers are sure and confident on the keyboard, his focus on the screen in front of him. There are a lot of things about him that draw my curiosity, but mostly I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. I know what I want him to see. It’s what I want the rest of the world to see. But he’s not like everybody else. His look is a touch that vibrates across my senses like ripples in a pond, moving through me in tiny waves until I can feel him everywhere. It’s disorienting and thrilling at the same time.

He catches me staring and does that slow-blink thing as though it takes him a minute to process what’s happening. His gaze drifts to my mouth and lingers. He’s thinking. I’m thinking. He shakes it off and stares at his hands hovering over the keyboard like he doesn’t know what to do. I cross my arms over my chest, making the decision for us both.

“What did you find?” My voice comes out croaky.

He doesn’t move for a moment and then his fingers fly over the keyboard again. He brings up a Tumblr account with the user name VacantSorrow. The profile picture is a black-and-white drawing of a teenage girl with hair hanging in her face, obscuring all of her features except her bright orange lips. I know that image. Marie drew it. I saw it posted on one of her other social media accounts.

Beau points to it. “I did image searches of all the photos she had on her various accounts. This is the only one that hit. She posts to it fairly regularly. The last time was this morning. You should probably start reading from the first post.”

He scrolls through the recent posts until he gets to the first entry, then scoots his chair over so I can work the mouse.

The first post is dated almost two months ago. She talks about a man she met at the mall. He stopped her and told her she was beautiful and that she should be a model. He doesn’t pay any attention to her friend, who she thinks is prettier than her. She’s known him for a month and opened this account so she could write about him. She talks about how kind he is to her and about how she can tell him anything.

This is how it all started for me.

I move through the entries. Some are about school and how boring it is. Some are about the group home she’s in and the crush she used to have on one of the boys until she met her dream man. She calls this man Daddy and laughs at the irony of the nickname and how much he likes it when she calls him that. She talks about what a gentleman he is and how he makes her feel special. Special. Beautiful. Smart. These are all the things he makes her feel over and over and over. He feeds it to her like a drug and she’s becoming addicted. She’s never met anyone like him. No one’s ever made her feel the way he makes her feel.