"I'll send everything over to you digitally so that you can review it yourself. But right now, if I had to call it, I'd tell you to put a bullet in the back of the fucker's head." Liam ran his palm over his head. "But we need to make sure."
"You want to interrogate him."
"Actually, I want Quince to interrogate him."
Dallas nodded, thinking of his former roommate turned MI6 agent and his exceptional skill at extracting confessions.
"If we grab him and he's innocent--"
"I know," Liam said. "I don't think he'd invite you around for lunch anymore. It's your call, man," he said. "We can keep poking around, but I don't think we're ever going to be sure until we look the man in the eyes."
Dallas nodded slowly. "Grab him."
Liam nodded. "The team's already in position. We'll have him within the hour." Liam started to turn toward the door, then paused. "Do you want in? Not on the snatch, but the interrogation?"
Dallas shook his head. "No. If he really is the one--if I see the truth of that in his eyes--I swear to god I'll kill him on the spot. And I don't want him dead that fast. I want answers. I want to know why he did it. Why he put Jane and me through hell. And I damn sure want to know who the Woman is. So you have Quince interrogate, and you call me in after."
"And then?" Liam asked.
"And then I kill him."
Goodbye to You
Compared to the Southampton mansion and my townhouse, the Seventy-Fifth Street apartment is tiny at only eighteen hundred square feet. But I don't care. It's ours--mine and Dallas's--and despite the shitstorm that has engulfed our personal and public lives, that fact alone makes me positively giddy.
We haven't said anything more to the press, but they've been buzzing around us constantly. And pictures of us holding hands as we came and went from my LA house to the airport and then again in New York are all over social media.
It feels as if the whole world is commenting on our relationship. Some people say we should just be left alone to do what we want. Others say we're disgusting. Sinful. That even without a blood relationship, the fact of our adoption makes our relationship both illegal and vile. Some say we got what we deserved when Eli disinherited us. Others say our parents are horrible.
As for the two of us, we've said nothing.
Reporters have been begging for a statement, an interview, anything. And Dallas and I agree that we should give it to them. We'll do that, but later. There's nothing they can print that is more than the truth, and we're hoping that by letting them run loose with speculation, that by the time we officially speak, our relationship will have been so gossiped about it really won't even be news.
Probably won't happen, but we can hope.
And besides, even with all the c
hatter and gossip, we're both too happy in our new bubble to think about bringing the press into our world just yet.
Now, I turn in a circle, taking in the obstacle course of boxes and furniture. It's a huge mess--and I have absolutely no idea how we're going to make everything fit--but I'm looking forward to the challenge. Craving it, really. My life may have literally exploded, but I'm surprised by how much of a relief it is to have shed the secret that Dallas and I have been carrying. So much of a relief that even doing normal, mundane stuff is making me a little giddy.
And, yeah, I feel a bit guilty about that. I know my mom is in a huge funk--not because she thinks Dallas and me being together is bad, but because my dad is being so damned unreasonable. And, yes, because she hasn't got the balls to stand up to him and support her kids.
I know that Dallas and I are going to have to deal with that. With him. And with the press. And with sideways looks from strangers.
I know that Dallas is going to have to figure out how to regroup on the Deliverance side of things. He can no longer be the King of Fuck--at least not to anyone but me. Which means that Dallas may have to shift his role within Deliverance, and one of the other guys--I think briefly of Quince with his sexy British accent--will have to dive into the playboy role.
These are all real problems, and we're going to have to find real answers. But for this week at least, I officially don't care. For the next seven days, I'm all about this apartment and the man I share it with. The real world is out there--I know it. He knows it. And we also know it's not going away. But for this bubble in time, we're going to focus on us.
Right now, in fact, I'm searching the room for the box into which I'd packed all the bar supplies. Because Dallas is going to return from clearing out his office soon, and when he does I intend to greet him at the door with a martini--and absolutely nothing else.
I'm interrupted in my rummaging by the buzz of the intercom. I hurry to the door and punch the button on the speaker. "Yes?"
"Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Martin," the doorman says. "But I have a man here who wants to see you, and I don't think he's a reporter."
"Who is it?"
"He says he's your ex-husband."