Page 21 of Fame And Secrets
Chapter Eight
Tiptoeing backward into the living room, I placed my hand against my heart. The wild thumping reminded me that the badass independence I portrayed to Ryker earlier faded the minute I saw where she’d been dumped. It took forever to find, but once I did, it became real. Up until then, my information came from vague reports spoken from well-botoxed morning anchors. I’d mastered the art of distancing myself from the reality of his destruction.
Until now.
Seeing Elisabeth Cayden’s final resting place changed me—and not for the better. Her physical body wasn’t there—already shipped off to the medical examiner’s office—but she still lingered. The stench of death filled my airways. Her picture ran across every LA news show within ratings proximity, and her bright blue eyes haunted me. They spoke to me. They mirrored me.
Elisabeth Cayden wasn’t chosen at random.
She’s a message.
A haunting chill swept through me and I shivered. My teeth chattered from what I knew had come to fruition. Regardless of what Julian fought to make me believe, my father had found me. He’d made good on the promise he’d made as he held a knife to my throat.
“No matter where you run, I’ll always find you, princess.”
The room swallowed me with emptiness. The house felt like a medieval castle, when it barely hit two-thousand square feet. Most of America would call it a shit-hole, which made me laugh considering the rent Julian shelled out for it could buy a small third world country.
“How nice of you to return, Judas.”
Shit.
I’d planned on Ryker still being asleep so I could slip upstairs, sight unseen. I didn’t have enough time to think up a plausible enough excuse to be standing in the middle of the living room in street clothes, with two sets of keys and both our phones in my purse.
And fuck if he wasn’t pissed.
“Ry…”
He clenched his fists and glued them to his side, something I’d recognized as a trait in highly irate Bale men. “Don’t you fucking ‘Ry’ me, Phoebe. Do you know how fucking pissed I…I can’t even talk to…Jesus Christ, you took my keys and my phone? What kind of psycho super spy are you?”
“I’m not a—”
“And let’s not discuss what the hell my brother’s going to do to me when he finds out.” He grabbed handfuls of his shaggy hair and tugged wildly. “I’ll tell you what he’s going to do—he’s going to cut off my dick and strangle me with it. That’s my obituary, Phoebe—cock asphyxiation. Won’t my mother be proud? So, yeah, thanks for that.”
It was a truly sad day when I stood as the rational one in the room.
I snickered, and he glared. “I don’t see what’s so fucking funny, Gone Girl.”
“You’re overreacting, Ry. He doesn’t have to know anything.”
“Oh?” His lips curled in a mocking snarl as he pointed to my purse. “Go ahead. Check our phones and tell me we aren’t screwed.”
Humoring him, I dug in my purse and with a phone in each hand, I activated the screens. There were at least five missed calls on each from Julian. My stomach dropped.
He smiled smugly and crossed his arms. “Any more bright ideas, Sherlock?”
I needed a cohesive story, lie by carefully constructed lie. Julian was a bloodhound and excelled at pulling confessions out of me. Ryker was a huge pain in my ass, but he’d done nothing wrong. I owed it to him to protect him from his brother’s irrational wrath. Plus, I needed someone to talk to about what happened at Griffith Park. A part of me still sat on the merry-go-round beside the jewel encrusted horse where they found her.
“We need to talk.”
“No shit,” he snarled.
I threw myself into his unprepared arms—a move that took him by surprise as he stumbled backward. A red tinge crawled up his neck, and I had to swallow a partial smile.
“Oh, stop. I just needed a hug, you big dumbass.”
Ryker shifted his eyes downward. “Are you okay? Where did you go tonight?”
The embrace became awkward, and I moved away. “I’m fine. A little tired and a lot stressed. I went…” I hesitated, deciding if I should trust him, “…I went to Griffith Park.”