Page 148 of Burning Embers
His raspy voice echoes through the room, and I go still yet again.
“Gracie, something came up, but I’ll stop by your place after. We need to talk. There are some things I need to tell you.” He pauses and then adds, almost reluctantly, “I love you.”
Gracie…
Who the fuck is Gracie?
Knowing her identity may be the smoking gun I’m looking for.
Is she Grayson’s mistress, like Sydney seems to believe, or a relative? I’m leaning towards the former, but I can’t quite rule out the latter.
Silence permeates the air, broken only by the clicking of keys. Then Grayson steps out of the bathroom with his flip phone held to his ear. A scowl mars his face.
“Where do you want to meet?” Grayson’s voice is curt and angry, laced with an edge of sharpened violence.
It’s certainly not the soft way he talked to this Gracie chick.
I strain my ears to hear the person’s response.
“The usual spot. Five minutes.” The masculine voice sounds familiar, but I can’t pinpoint where I know it from.
School, perhaps? Maybe…
“Fuck.” Grayson scrubs a hand through his dark hair. “This is the last time, you hear me? No more. I’m done.”
The other man chuckles. “You're done when I say you’re done. You know what will happen if you disobey.”
Grayson’s jaw clenches, and his free hand forms a tight fist. “Leave her the fuck alone.”
Her?
Sydney?
Gracie?
Questions race around in my head.
“Five minutes.” And then the phone goes dead.
Grayson heaves out a breath, and I swear I can practically see the tension pulsating just beneath his skin. He lowers his head and closes his eyes as his chest rises and falls rapidly. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, remaining perfectly still.
I don’t dare to even breathe, afraid that the slightest hitch would garner his attention. The silence is too fragile—a frayed string a single tug away from snapping.
Grayson seems to regain control of himself, and he straightens and grabs his keys out of his pocket. Without another word, he stomps out of the apartment and slams the door shut.
I count to thirty—each consecutive second feeling like a death knell—and then slide out from underneath the bed. I frown down at the dust and dirt staining my jeans and try ineffectually to wipe it all away. When that proves futile, I stand and move to the bathroom.
Why was he so interested in the mirrored cabinet?
Hesitantly, my heart in my throat, I pull it open. But just like before, I only see a few toiletries. Nothing incriminating.
I place my finger along the outer edge and trail it down, frowning when it catches on something. I apply the slightestamount of pressure and the shelf opens, revealing a secondary shelf behind the first.
A hidden compartment.
Bingo.
I grab the iPhone—the only item I can see—and frown at the keypad. What are the odds that the passcode would be the same for both this phone and the flip phone?