Page 46 of Hidden Justice

The Parish clan is notorious worldwide for their wealth, intelligence, drive, and involvement with social and global issues. They’re everywhere online, working globally, lobbying for reforms, and even visiting world leaders.

Could those situations play a part in deeper, hidden activities? If I do enough research, will I find that Parish family travels mirror darker events in certain areas? Events aimed at taking out those who harm women or women’s rights?

Too angry to think, I turn on my side and breathe deeply. The smell of Justice is in the sheets and pillows, a tantalizing whiff of her unique, spicy scent—distinctly female.

God, even now I want her. I’m into her deep, and I have no idea when it happened.

There’s no exact moment I can pinpoint, but a dozen vivid images of her torture me.

Justice pushing boldly into her mother’s office. Justice’s hand opening to mine on the plane. Justice’s eager responses as I thrust into her body, alongside my own overpowering need to get deeper, closer… and that final orgasm that felt like surrender, finding home, a purpose. And more.

All of these images bring warmth to my heart, which makes no damn sense because, at this very moment, I can’t recall ever being this pissed off at anyone. Odd that this pillow smells so sweet when the woman herself is frustrating as hell.

Shoving the pillow away, I grab my phone and call Victor. If Justice thinks she can sneak out and leave me trapped in Israel so she can take on Walid by herself, she has another think coming.

27

JUSTICE

Ibarely slept on the twelve-hour-plus plane ride home. Too guilty. Sandesh had looked so perfect when I’d left him sleeping in Israel. All the more reason why I’m driving up the winding hill toward the Mantua Home with a plan.

Joy threads through my heart at seeing the mansion that sits atop the highest hill on campus. I swing around the stone fountain then park. Climbing out of the car, I stretch and instantly regret it—my side still aches. Not as badly, but bad enough.

Nerves start the moment I climb the front steps of my home. Coming home usually brings me only a sense of peace. Not because of the house’s opulence, its thirty thousand square feet above ground, the hidden acres below ground, the mullion arched windows, or any of the historical stone etchings, but because of the people.

A thorn of pain grabs at my throat. Gracie. Dada. Tony. Bridget. One of them gave Walid the ability to track me. One of them almost got me killed. It hurts so deeply I almost don’t want to go inside. But not facing things isn’t my style. Besides, Sandesh needs me to stick up for him.

Above, pink lines streak the clouds as the departing sun winks away in the dusk. Exterior lights pop on along the stone stairs and the cobbled driveway. I start up the expansive entryway stairs, the bright perfume of the early flowering hawthorn filling the air. That smell—more than anything—reminds me of childhood. Of testing boundaries and getting into trouble with Gracie. How many times did Momma warn me, “Justice, there are some lines you cannot cross”?

I crossed them repeatedly, resigned to pay the price for my freedom. Now, my rash actions might mean Sandesh is punished. No way. I’ll pay whatever price I need to pay. But I won’t let anyone, including Momma, take his memories.

At the top of the stairs, I push the handcrafted, twenty-foot-tall double doors. They swing open with gentle ease. The grand foyer’s beauty—fresh flowers, marble pedestal table, and the multilevel split staircase—reminds me that I’m one of the lucky ones. I survived. Thrived.

The comforting noise of my big family envelopes me as I shut the doors. Upstairs, two girls argue. Their harsh words echo down the wide hall and mix with the training session in the gym. Only my family would put a gym—not a library or a sitting room—off the entryway. The explosive grunts and forceful “hiyuhs!” reverberate through the open doors.

Striding past the gym, I glance inside and see Bridget training a group of teens. She waves me over. Her smile is genuine. I can’t imagine her as a traitor.

Waving her off, I keep going. Bridget undoubtedly wants to grill me on the mission. By now, they must all know. With Walid still out there and a new mission looming, Momma had no choice but to come clean.

Well, partly.

They all know about my failure. Know I snuck out behind their backs. Know how I relied on Sandesh when things got dicey. Know that we have to band together to form a new plan. What theydon’tknow is what has me feeling, grimy, used, pissed off, and sad to my soul. They don’t know I did all of that because I suspect we have a traitor among us.

Shoulders tensing, I stride down the long, ornately decorated corridor, past the sunken library.

“Justice?” Tony pops out of the arched library doorway and grabs me into a hug.

I almost don’t hug him back.

He squeezes tighter—so tight my ribs almost crack.

I give in and hold him back. He smells like Tony, like celery juice and ginger.

Could he be the one who told Walid where to find me in Syria? My heart shrieks denial. Not Tony. Not him. I might not know much, but I know that.

He releases me. “Justice. I…” He breaks off. A large, disbelieving smile cracks his face nearly in half. Damn, the family orthodontist got so carried away with Tony’s braces. He has the best smile I’ve ever seen. No need to tell him that. In fact, he needs to be taken down more, not built up.

“Nice smile, Tone.” I push his shoulder. “You could actually double as a Muppet.”