The details remained sketchy, the information limited given the late hour and the careful nature of my inquiries, but what I’d learned kept me on edge. I’d placed Matteo in charge of acquiring additional security for the house and grounds, ensuring I wouldn’t have any unwanted visitors. The news of our engagement had yet to hit the presses, but it wouldn’t be long until the final hand was played, drawing Tristen into the light.
Then I’d crush him like a bug.
“Why was Clarice in your house?” I was trying to be sensitive, but the turn of events meant that Sierra had been keeping something from me.
She moved toward the window, staring out at the night sky. Standing in jeans and a tee shirt, her feet bare, she seemed more fragile than the woman who’d been happy to confront the FBI. Her sadness yanked at my heartstrings, which continued to surprise me, but business was business.
The fact she was ignoring me was trying my patience. “You need to tell me the truth, Sierra. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to keep you safe.”
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
“Sierra.”
“She was getting the only box of Tristen’s things that I’d kept. What am I saying? They were the only items I found after his death. Just looking into the box was a stark and clear reminder that our relationship was plastic.”
“What else? I know you’re not telling me something. What was inside?” I moved closer, giving her a stern look.
“A few clothing items and personal effects including a paperback book.”
“A paperback. Was he an avid reader?”
She folded her arms then tilted her head, searching my eyes as she’d done before. What was she hoping to find? Comfort? Condolences? “No. Tristen purposely left it on the nightstand the day he left, which was very unusual. I’d never seen him read a book of fiction in his life. That was the last day he was alive.”
“What was inside the book, Sierra?”
“Nothing that I noticed. There were no pictures that fell out or a slip of paper nestled inside. I tossed it into a box three or four weeks after his death and didn’t think about it.”
“Then why did you deem it important enough that you asked Clarice to retrieve it?”
Her gaze was cold, emotionless, but I could sense she was barely holding it together. “Because of the roses.”
I thought about what she’d just said and remembered her question from before. “You were sent roses for the goddamn event,” I stated, my muscles tensing. What the fuck was wrong with me? I should have grilled her earlier and made a positive determination she hadn’t spoken with the asshole after he’d died. I wasn’t the kind of man to assume anything. It would appear I’d grown soft around her, the beginnings of our… relationship shoving aside my predictable conscientious nature. Damn it to hell.
“Yes,” she said, nodding several times as she purposely walked away from me. “That’s why I asked you whether or not you sent them. Then I thought my mother might have had them delivered, congratulating me. Until I found the note. Brittany had accidentally thrown the card that came with it into the trash.”
“What did this note say?”
She clenched her jaw, her brow furrowing. “The note was blurred, barely readable, but as soon as I made out a few words, I remembered something Tristen had said, a quote from someone named Kim Harrison. ‘The undead did not love, but they remembered love with a savage loyalty.’ And the roses were covered with thorns.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about this when we were in North Carolina?” My anger spiked and as I advanced, I noticed the first real look of fear in her eyes. I immediately backed down and away, taking several deep breaths. “Why?” While I softened my tone, the tension between us remained. A flash of her ring caught my attention, the angst in my system increasing.
I’d seen the look in her eyes the moment I’d slipped the band of gold on her finger. I’d felt the increase in excitement, noticing the sparkle in her smile. And goddamn it, I’d experienced the powerful vibrations that had coursed through both of us.
But it wasn’t real.
July. She was freaking born in July. I’d almost laughed except in my mind, I thought about the old wives’ tale my brother believed in and shoved it aside. Bullshit superstition.
Or was fate fucking with me, providing the single chance for the one thing I’d demanded from her?
Salvation.
“Because I barely knew you and certainly couldn’t trust you then. How could I?”
I continued to fume inside, more determined than ever to bring down the bastard. “Anything else?” When there was another hesitation, I closed my eyes. “Your friend was murdered in cold blood because she appeared a lot like you. You’re in danger, Sierra. I’m not going to sugarcoat the fact. You need to tell me everything.”
“Fine. The reason I had Clarice go to my house to get the box became more imperative when she told me she thought she saw Tristen in town. She’d only met him once, but she had an almost photographic memory, so I believed her.”