Till Death(38)

The dread exploded like buckshot, spreading throughout my system. Mom tried to close the door again, but Striker wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was Miranda, and while my stomach was churning and a huge part of me wanted to dash upstairs, I didn’t want her to get into trouble. This was my problem. Not hers. Not my mother’s.

“Miranda, please go. I’ve got this,” I said, meeting her angry gaze. I smiled at her reassuringly. “It’s okay. This was bound to happen. Go.”

The press of her lips told me only an act of God was keeping her mouth shut, but she nodded curtly and then stepped around Striker, sizing him up with a dismissive curl of her lips.

I watched her cross the porch and then disappear around the corner before I focused on Striker.

He went on like we hadn’t given him an indication that we weren’t happy to answer his questions. “Mayor Hughes gave a press conference this morning on the discovery of the body and he’s saying—”

“I know you’re just doing your job and that is the only reason why I’m going to kindly tell you that I have nothing to say.”

“So, you need to leave and I need to close the door, because we’re letting all the warm air out,” my mom added, moving to close the door again. “And I’m asking that kindly.”

Striker’s foot jutted out, joining the battle along with his hand. “I know this is a sensitive topic for you and I understand that you’d be reluctant, but it is entirely too convenient that the same place was used to leave the body.”

I curled my hands into fists. “It is convenient and it also has nothing to do with me.”

“But doesn’t it concern you at all?”

I almost answered the question. My nails were digging into my palms. “Why would it concern me? This has nothing to do with—with what happened?”

He bit down on his lip. “Look, I just want—”

“I don’t care what you want,” I shot back as the welling irritation gave way to anger. “What happened to me isn’t some story to run in the Sunday paper to entertain people. It’s my life. It has nothing to do with what happened to this poor woman and it’s disgusting to even attempt to sensationalize what happened to her.”

Striker widened his stance, and I knew then he wasn’t planning to go anywhere; I knew by the change in his expression, the sudden hard jut of his jaw, he was going for it. “Is it true that the Groom was planning to kill you when you escaped—that you escaped during the attempt itself?”

Oh my God.

Blood rushed so fast from my head I felt dizzy. I stepped back, bumping into the desk. He knew. How did he know that? Were those kind of records available? There hadn’t been a trial. There hadn’t been a need for one. The Groom had died, and even though a lot of info had leaked to the press, that hadn’t.

I gasped. “How . . . did you know that?”

“I’m a reporter, Miss Keeton. It’s my job to know things.”

“That’s enough,” Mom snapped before Striker could answer. She pushed on the door again. “I’m giving you ten seconds to get off my property before I call the police.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a deep, rough voice said, and my heart did that unsteady flip again. Over Striker’s shoulder, I saw Cole stalk through the entryway, and he looked furious. He clapped a hand down on Striker’s shoulder and spun him around, away from the door. “He’s leaving now.”

Striker stumbled to the side, his eyes widening when he came face-to-face with Cole. Surprise flickered over his face. “I know who you are.”

Cole smirked. “Then you should know that you better be getting the hell off this property.”

“I’m not breaking a law,” he challenged. “Surely not a federal one.”

“Actually, you will be breaking a law. This is a private property, and they’ve asked you to leave.” Cole stalked toward Striker, forcing him back. “You don’t leave, that’s a law you’re breaking.”

The center of Striker’s cheeks flushed red. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something but then snapped his jaw closed. He glanced over at me and then pivoted around, hurrying off the porch. Cole closed the door.

“Thank you, Cole,” Mom gushed while I was still standing practically petrified in front of the desk. “I was seconds away from picking up that floor lamp and beating him over the head with it until he left.”

Cole’s lips did that twitch thing that said he was fighting a smile. I slowly looked over at my mom. “That would’ve been a damn shame too. I purchased that lamp from Wayfair after searching for months for the perfect one,” she added.

My gaze darted to the floor lamp in question and I frowned. There was nothing special about it. It was a white lampshade on a gray pole.

“Well, I’m glad I saved the floor lamp.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a set of keys. “Your truck is parked outside.”

Remembering the truck and everything else, I snapped out of it. “Thank you for bringing it back. You didn’t have to do that.”

His cool gaze drifted over to me. “But I did.”

Those three words again. They were haunting me. So were those eyes. Cole had left this morning before I stepped out of my bedroom, but not before turning on my coffeemaker and letting it brew so it would be ready for me.