I Belong to You (Inside Out #5)(3)

The reprimand hits me all kinds of wrong ways, and I snap. “If you expect me to say, ‘Yes, Mr. Compton,’ it’s not happening. I won’t apologize to you for wanting answers. No. This isn’t even about wanting them. I need them to ensure I can keep holding things together here. I deserve not to be left in the dark.”

His silence stretches to the point that I want to scream, though like him, I don’t lose control easily. I most certainly don’t scream—at least, I haven’t for many years.

“Nothing,” he finally says.

“Nothing?” Is this one of his many head games? “What does that mean?”

“There’s no sign of Ava. She’s just vanished.”

Shocked he’s conceded me this battle, I quickly dive in for more information before he shuts me out. “Did she have the money to leave the country?”

“From what I hear, not enough to truly disappear, not without some help. And the only thing I’m hearing is speculation.”

“They still think Ricco helped her, because he believed you were framing her for Rebecca’s murder?”

“That’s the theory. They’re convinced he thought the kid from the coffee shop was her lover, and he helped them run off, perhaps to another country.”

I read what he hasn’t said. “You don’t buy it.”

“The kid was going to turn in evidence on her. Why would he run off with her?”

“To buy time with the police?”

“Maybe,” he says tightly. “Or maybe she killed him, too.”

“Do you think . . . would Ricco actually have killed Ava? Could that be why she’s so completely off the radar?”

“If he is responsible for Ava’s disappearance, I hope like hell that bastard found out she was guilty, and killed the bitch. It saves me the trouble of hunting her down and doing it myself.”

The guttural roughness of his voice reminds me of his vow to kill anyone who hurt Rebecca. “You don’t mean that. Mark, you can’t—”

“I know what killing her would do to my family. And I already told you, I’m not convinced it was Ricco that helped Ava, anyway.”

“But you think someone did.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

A pause. “I sent you back there to keep you out of this.”

“I’m already swimming neck deep.”

“Just control the media and run Riptide. Stay away from the rest. If I find out you’ve done any differently, I don’t care how dedicated you are or how loved you are by my mother, I’ll fire you.”

“Fire me?” I gasp, hurt, insulted, and appalled.

“It’s better than having you end up hurt. You’ve been protecting my family. I’m going to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Well, you’re getting it. Which brings me to the subject of Walker Security. Their corporate office is in Manhattan, and I’ve contracted them to take over Riptide’s security next week. They’ll also be putting men at my parents’ building around the clock. Since Blake Walker is still here working with the SFPD to find Ava, Jacob’s coming with me to New York.”

Tension curls up my spine. “This is extreme. What haven’t you told me?”

“I can’t stay away when my mother needs me. But where I go, the press follows—in far bigger hordes than you’ve experienced.”

“No. That’s not what this is about.”

“It’s me taking control.”

“Of what, Mark?”

“Everything. I’m taking control of everything.” His phone beeps. “I have to take that. Call me if anything changes.” The line goes dead.

Sinking onto the mattress, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. I’m taking control of everything. That includes me—or he thinks it does. But it’s bigger than that, too. I felt it; I read it between the lines. I replay the conversation, connecting the dots from everything I know to date, and come to the only conclusion I can. This is about the vengeance he vowed—and there are more players than I know. That threat to fire me was to make me back off before I see too much or get hurt. He was so fiercely adamant about protection, there’s clearly a risk of danger.

“What crazy, insane thing are you up to, Mark Compton?” I whisper.

Mark . . .

An hour after we land in New York, Jacob stops the rented Escalade in front of a ten-story gray building nestled within a cluster of buildings inside the center of Manhattan’s Rockefeller Center. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” I tell him, reaching for the door.

“I’ll stay close,” Jacob assures me, his steady, clipped ex-military tone part of his steely reserve.

With a short nod, I exit the rear seat onto the street and into large white snowflakes that quickly cover my hair and my Crombie topcoat. The beginning of a late fall snowstorm is yet another chilling reminder of how far I am from San Francisco and the life I’d worked to create for myself. But the illness my mother fights makes none of that matter anymore. Her living is all that matters.

Stepping under the overhang of the building, I glance at my Rolex to confirm I’m ten minutes early for the nine o’clock private meeting I’ve scheduled tonight, before I surprise my mother with my extended visit. “Riptide” is etched in gray stone between the large glass doors, and pride fills me. It’s the largest auction house in the world, and my mother’s creation is now twenty-five years strong—only nine years shy of my time on this earth.