“Calm down, Emma.” His cadence was back to measured. “You’re not being held a prisoner. You’re under my protection.”
“I’m calling bullshit on witness protection. I’ve watched movies and read books. You’re not law enforcement.”
“You’re right, I’m not.” He brought his nose near mine. Each sentence was punctuated with the scent of his vinaigrette dressing. “Listen to me. I’m going to let go of your wrists. When I do, you’ll calmly go sit upon the chaise.” Holding my wrists in one hand, he brought a finger to my lips. “I will not repeat my rule.”
Apparently, doing as he said, when he said, was not limited to sex.
As I stared into his dark gaze, I wasn’t certain what would happen if he repeated his rule. However, by the way the brown of his eyes swirled with black, reminding me of churning water at the bottom of a well, I decided now wasn’t the time to learn. I nodded. “Fine, I’ll sit.”
Rett freed my wrists. I noticed that each one bore redness from his grasp. As I walked to the lounge chair, I rubbed one and then the other. Straightening my neck, I slowly made my way to the chair where I’d fallen asleep the night before.
Looking down, I saw the book I’d been reading lying on the floor. Adjusting the robe to ensure I was covered, I sat perched on the edge. “There. I’m sitting. Are you happy?”
It didn’t take a mind reader to know that happy was probably not Everett Ramses’s top emotion at the moment.
“Are you?” he asked.
My gaze went to the open window that wasn’t—it was blocked like the rest of them. “No, I’m not.”
“You wanted to discuss last night.”
While he hadn’t stated it as a question, I nodded.
Rett reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a phone. Pushing it my direction, he said, “Tell me who this man is.”
After determining that this was how he wanted to proceed, I begrudgingly looked down at the screen. As soon as I did, I recoiled, turning away as the chicken salad I’d eaten churned within my stomach. “He’s dead.”
“I know he’s dead, Emma. I also know the name on his ID. I want you to tell me who he is.”
With my stomach ready to revolt, I again leaned toward the screen of his phone.
The person appeared to be a man, one with a hole or a void where part of his head should be. The lighting was dark, making colors difficult to distinguish, yet I was certain the glowing pool of liquid around his head was red and so was what was left of his dark hair. My head tilted. “I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“I haven’t seen him in years.” I pushed the phone away, my stomach doing more acrobatics as images of his brother, not him, tried to surface in the recesses of my mind. “I last saw him at the memorial for my family.” My chin lowered to my chest as I recalled the memorial. I chose to have only one, a single service to celebrate the lives of my parents and Kyle. At the time, I hadn’t been mentally or emotionally capable of three individual services. The funeral director recommended one joint celebration of life. And as I recalled the mourners, that dead man in Rett’s picture had been present along with someone else.
“Emma.”
I looked up, seeing Rett’s clenched jaw and intense stare.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
I stood, meeting him chest to chest. Next, slowly and deliberately, I lifted my chin to meet his brown, almost black eyes. “He is...was,” I corrected, “Greyson Ingalls. He was Kyle’s best friend in high school. They roomed together their freshman year of college and both entered the same fraternity. They shared an apartment after graduation. Kyle died nearly a year later.”
“And what do you know of Ingalls’s whereabouts since you were led to believe Kyle died?”
My head shook as I took a step back. “You keep saying that, but Kyle did die. I know he did. I planned his funeral. I was there. I got the call about the accident.”
“Mr. Ingalls?”
I shrugged as I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly chilled. I’d known the Ingalls family for most of my life. Greyson had once been like a brother to me. I wouldn’t let myself think about his older brother. “Nothing. I was in my senior year of college. They had lived in North Carolina. After their deaths, I moved permanently to Pittsburgh and didn’t stay in contact with my or Kyle’s friends from our hometown.”
“Even on social media?”
“Remember what you said about having uneasy feelings?”
Rett nodded.