Thinking about where we are together, and where we have been since I’ve moved in with him, I think we are changing. I’ve seen glimpses of what we might be like if he ever to truly let me inside the walls of the cell I believe is his own tormented confinement. But tormented by what? I do not know. Whatever it is, or was, that torments him, I have now seen beneath the shell of the Master that hides a man who can be tender, who laughs with me at movies, who makes me breakfast, and will go out of his way to ensure everything I love and need is at my fingertips. He says this is his role as Master: to please me. Pleasure is always his focus, his replacement for love. And yet every time I tear down a piece of his wall, light shines through, and he shuts me down.
That’s when he takes me to the club; that’s when he takes me places he knows I don’t want to go. As if he’s telling me there’s a price for cracking the surface of his shell. And as I’ve written often, I know there is a price for being with him, but I’ve come to know that no matter what it might be, I’m willing to pay it. I am his and I cling to the possibility that one day he might be mine. Right now, even when we are in the same bed and he’s asleep next to me, he is never really with me. It hurts, too. Sometimes it’s a deep, clawing ache that leads right to my soul. It makes me want to withdraw, to protect myself as he protects himself. But if I hold back, where will that leave us? And what chance do I have of him ever giving me more? I have to put it all on the line. All or nothing and therefore I am always with him, even when he is not really with me, and I am going to be brave enough to speak up from now on and let him know. I’m going to tell him that I love him, and make him see that he has all of me. And maybe one day, he’ll trust me enough to know that I will never hurt him, to love me back. I want him to experience that in life. One day . . .
I shut the journal, my throat thick, tears streaming down my cheeks, understanding now why he’s selling the club. I remember his tormented expression, the guilt in his eyes. He never told her he loved her; I’m sure of it. But he did love her—and now it’s too late.
“I’m so sorry, Rebecca,” I whisper into the empty room. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you. And I wish you could come back and be here, instead of me.” I lie on the couch, holding the journal to my chest. I feel as if I’m betraying her if I stay, yet betraying her if I let him self-destruct. And I fear that’s exactly where he’s headed.
Mark
Blake opens the door to the room manned by Walker Security and two of his men quickly leave, sending an obvious message. He feels we need privacy. Blake motions me forward, and I travel an identical hallway to the one in my room and enter the combination living/dining area. It’s a blow to find my attorney, Tiger, sitting at the round dining table.
He stands to greet me, still wearing the gray suit and pale blue shirt that I’d seen him in earlier today, except his tie is gone and his shirt is unbuttoned.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” I demand, asking a stupid question that I’d despise from someone else.
“Great attorneys spend more time fucking with people who mean to fuck with their clients than they do sleeping.” He sounds as weary as his mussed black hair and two-day beard indicate.
“And yet you’re here to fuck with me.”
He levels a stare at me. “An unfortunate reality is that sometimes good news is also bad news.”
Blake steps to my side. “You want a drink?”
“I’m already half a bottle of scotch down. I’ll pass.” I stay focused on Tiger. “Tell me what you have to tell me.”
“Why don’t we sit down,” he suggests.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, legs set in a solid V. “I’ll stand.”
“Then we stand,” Tiger concludes, matching my stance. “The good news is,” he says without further preamble, “on Monday morning, they’re going to a judge to request an arrest warrant for Ava. They’ll use Sunday to organize all the evidence to make their case.”
“I thought DNA evidence required labs and testing that take more time than that.”
“It does,” Blake confirms, moving next to Tiger across the table from me. He presses his fists onto the wooden surface. “But they have enough without it. They placed Rebecca on the boat and in Ava’s coffee shop.”
My lashes lower and that vise on my chest is back. One. Two. Three. I open my eyes. “Meaning what?”
“They found a journal that she wrote on the night she arrived back in San Francisco,” Blake explains. “You, Chris, and Sara have been fully cleared. And Walker Security has been hired by the DA to help complete the investigation. That makes me privy to information that I wouldn’t otherwise have and while that information is confidential, I’ll say this. Off the record, it placed her at the coffee shop after she attempted to find you at the gallery, while you were in New York.”
The vise tightens. “Where did they find the journal?”
“On the kid’s family boat. He still claims Ava borrowed the boat to take some potential investor out for a ride and fucked him for payment.”
“Rebecca was on the boat,” I say, my voice gravelly.
“That’s the obvious assumption,” Blake confirms. “There are a few other pieces of the puzzle falling into place and we expect DNA confirmation. We’re certain enough that the DA doesn’t feel that he has to wait on it to go to a judge.”
“But there’s no body,” I say, looking for a reason to hope Rebecca’s alive.
Blake’s jaw sets grimly. “We don’t believe we’ll find a body.”
Because she’s in the ocean. Like in her constant, horrible nightmares. I run my hand through my hair and turn away, trying to get a grip on the rage inside me. I want to go to that bitch and kill her. I want to hurt her in a way I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone.
I whirl around on them. “I want the address of the friend who agreed to supervise Ava.”
Tiger curses. “That’s why I told you not to tell him,” he growls at Blake.
“He had a fucking right to know,” Blake snaps, then tells me, “I know what you’re feeling, man. I lost a fiancée to a bastard who I’ve sworn to kill. And since he’s a drug lord who evades the law, the million ways I can make him disappear without anyone knowing better are lined up like a fairy tale for me. I’ll do the world a favor wiping him out.”
“Exactly my thoughts with Ava,” I ground out. “I want the address.”
“You’ll end up in jail.”
I fist my hands on the table, staring Blake down. “Ask me if I fucking give a shit. Where the fuck is Ava?”
“Now seems like a good time for a change of subject,” Tiger interjects. “Your head of security at the club lost the financing he had to buy the club. But I want it. I’ll meet his offer and I’m self-funded.” He opens a folder. “I drew up new contracts, replacing my name with his.”
I don’t look at him. I stay focused on Blake. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“No, man. I’m not.”
I push off the table. “I have money. I have resources. I’ll find her myself.” I glance at the two men. “What about Ryan? I know he’s involved.”
Blake replies, “If he is, he’s covered his tracks well. But we’ll pressure Ava into confessing his involvement.”
I shake my head. “Right. So she can negotiate some plea deal for giving him up. All I can say is, you had better get to him before I do.”
I turn and cross the room, exit into the hallway, and keep on walking. I’m on a hunt now, and my prize is vengeance. I didn’t fight enough for her when she was alive. I’m damn sure going to do it now.
Part Three
Falling Apart
Mark
One. Two. Three. Fuck counting, I think, bursting into the stairwell of the building, on the edge of something dark and violent threatening to overcome me. The only thing holding it at bay is my focus on finding
Ava and Ryan. I take the downward steps toward the lobby, needing to move, to do anything to stop the burn in my chest and the fraying of my mind. Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I key in the auto-dial for the man I’d hired several weeks back.
“I want to know where she’s hiding,” I say after a short greeting and explanation, not giving a shit if my phone is tapped. I just want Ava. “And find her before they arrest her again Monday.”
“That’s extra,” he replies.
“Find her,” I order. “And do a better job than you have of finding out Ryan’s role in all of this.”
“And when I find her?”
“We’ll talk when you actually get the job done right.” I end the call and dial the driver that I have on payroll parked nearby. I’ve somehow ended the walk down ten floors. I stuff my phone back in my pocket, pausing at the heavy wooden exit door and lean on the wall, fighting the demons threatening to rise to the surface. The past that has become my present.
I told her love was a façade. I told her it’s a cruel destructive monster that will destroy you. And it did. She loved me and I destroyed her. Why the fuck did I let her fall in love? I should have pushed her away harder. I tried, and that’s how Ava and Ryan got involved. I should have done so many things that I didn’t do—and done so many I did, differently. I let her down. I hurt her. I can never make it right.
I shove off the wall. But I can get some justice. I will get justice.
Yanking open the door, I enter the deserted hotel lobby and cut to my right, traveling a long hallway toward a back exit, my stride focused. I want to see Ava pay for her crime, but Ryan, that bastard, will not walk away from this. He won’t. I know he’s involved; I saw it in the bastard’s eyes when I confronted him about what he told the police. I’ve stayed away to keep from beating the shit out of him. No more holding back for the sake of an investigation that’s given me the wrong answers. It’s all come back full circle, to me.
I exit the hotel by a side door and the car that I’ve called is already waiting. I slip into the back of the black sedan giving Ed, the sixty-something private driver I keep on standby, a nod.
“Evening, sir,” he greets me, immediately putting the car into gear, having been warned about the press. He glances in his rearview mirror at me. “Or perhaps I should say ‘morning’ at this hour.”
“As long as you leave out the ‘good’ part.” I pull my phone from my pocket. “Drive by my house so I can evaluate the press situation.”
“Yes, sir.” He glances in his mirror again. “Is there any news on Ms. Mason?”
The memory of him chauffeuring Rebecca around when she refused to let me buy her a car hits me like a blast of ice that bites clear to my soul. She’d been fond of him, and him of her. “Nothing I can share.”
“I am hoping for something positive,” he murmurs softly.
Yes—something positive would be good. And at this point, that’s going to be in the form of vengeance. I grab my phone and punch in Ryan’s number.
He answers on the second ring. “Finally, you’re returning my calls,” he says without preamble.
“Meet me at the club.” I end the call.
Crystal
Mark’s been gone a full hour when I really start to worry. I get dressed and look for my purse to do something about my tear-streaked face, then realize it’s in my room—along with my phone. With Riptide under my care, Mark’s parents counting on me to run the place, his mother ill, and Mark gone, any number of people could be trying to reach me.
I make a quick dash to my room and to my disappointment find no missed calls. After freshening up, I return to Mark’s suite to wait for him. There I turn on the TV and find the news, hoping for some hint of what he might be learning, but I hear nothing helpful.
As tempting as it is, I don’t read more of the journal, though I’m curious to know if Mark left it with the intention of me reading it. The idea that he would is confusing, and even if that was his plan, it feels wrong to read Rebecca’s words. The premise of death erasing our rights to privacy is a grim one for me. Death. My hand goes to my throat, hating that I’ve assumed Rebecca to be dead. I really don’t want it to be true.
By 1:15 a.m., I’ve resorted to pacing and studying the fancy interior of the expensive suite that I’ve barely noticed until now, and if not for the circumstances that are unique, I’d be irritated at myself. I try never to take luxury for granted, despite being blessed the past seventeen years with a family that’s more than a little comfortable. But I remember a time when they weren’t in my life, and when my world was hell. A part of me is illogically always afraid I’ll return to that place.
Shaking off the thought, I start flipping channels again when there’s a knock on the door, and my heart sinks to the ground. Mark wouldn’t knock and my stomach rolls at the thought that I’m about to get his bad news from someone else. Unless Mark lost his key—a crazy scenario for such a control freak, but he’s far from himself now. I rush down the hall and have to catch myself as I carelessly reach for the lock without question.
“Who is it?” I call.
“Blake Walker,” I hear. “I’m the—”
I open the door, finding a tall, dark-haired man in jeans and a Walker Security T-shirt, his long hair barely contained by a tie at his nape. “I know who you are. One of your employees drove me here and told me about you. Mark’s not here.”
“I know. I’m here to see you.”
My mouth goes dry with the implication of the bad news to follow. “He told you I was in his room?”
“I put two and two together. Can I come in?”
I step backward with a nod and he walks in, then turns to face me. “Has Mark called you?”
“No. Why? What’s wrong?”
Again he ignores my question. “How much influence do you have over him?”
I scowl at the nosy question that isn’t an answer to mine. “Stop answering my questions with questions. It’s upsetting and makes me nervous. Just tell me what is going on.”
He gives me a three-second deadpan stare before he says, “Obviously you have the balls to speak your mind. That could be a useful quality right now. I’m sure you know the charges related to Rebecca were dropped against Ava Perez.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
“There’s enough evidence to charge her again and make an arrest.”
My hand goes to my belly. “Oh. Oh, so that means . . .” I can’t get myself to say the word.
“Rebecca’s dead,” he finishes. “Yes.”
Feeling like I’ve been punched, I sink against the wall and press my fingers to my face, my mind replaying pieces of the journal entry. One day . . . “One day is never going to come,” I whisper, and I can’t seem to help it. My eyes burn. I’m fighting tears for a second time tonight, when I never cry.
“What does that mean?” Blake asks. “One day is never going to come?”
I inhale and drop my hands. “Rebecca. She’s never going to experience things she deserved to experience.”
“Right,” he says, his lips settling into a grim line. “So think about your reaction just now to the news and multiply it by one hundred, and you have Mark’s.”
“I can only imagine. Where is he now?”
“He went after Ava and Ryan, intending to make them pay.”
“Oh, no. No. That’s bad. That’s really bad.” I push off the wall. “He’s not thinking about his mother. She has cancer. She needs him. I have to find him. We have to find him.”
“I have someone following him. Last I heard, he was headed toward either his house or a private club he favors. They’re a few blocks apart.”
“His club,” I say, letting him know that I’m aware of what he’s talking about. “Is Ava or this Ryan person there?”
“No. Ava’s at an undisclosed location that I refused to give him, but h
e swore he could get it on his own. We aren’t sure about Ryan. We can’t get anyone at the club to talk.”
“Who is Ryan? How is he involved?”
“Someone close to Mark, Ava, and Rebecca. There was a circle.”
A circle, I repeat in my mind, putting it together. “For sex,” I say, feeling sick at the memory of Rebecca writing about how Mark had pushed her limits by taking her to the club.
“It’s Mark’s place to explain the relationships,” Blake says, avoiding a direct confirmation. “The bottom line is that Mark believes Ryan was involved in Rebecca’s murder, despite his rock solid alibi.” His cell phone rings and he answers it, listening a minute, his eyes finding mine. “Keep your eyes on the gates and make sure Ryan doesn’t enter, too, if he’s not already inside. Stop him if he tries.” He ends the call. “He’s at the club. Call him. Try to get him back here with you.”
I nod. “Yes. Yes, okay.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Yes. Of course.” I cross to the living area and sit on the couch while Blake follows to stand on the opposite side of the coffee table. I dig my cell from my purse and dial the button programmed for Mark. It rings and goes direct to voice mail.
I shake my head. “It’s either turned off or he just dismissed my call.”
He scrubs his jaw and his phone rings again. He answers, listens, then says, “Don’t do that. It’s a mistake.” He pauses. “My man will try, but I won’t let him get arrested. Fuck. Okay. I’m on my way.” He ends the call and tells me, “That was the head of security at the club. I warned him about Mark’s state of mind and he had a change of heart about keeping silent. He says Mark just told them to let Ryan through the gates when he arrives. I’m headed there now.”