Page 10 of Tempting Devil

“It’s not too late.”

“I’m a killer, Henry. There is no future for us. Not with who I am.” I met his gaze. “She’s better off without me.”

He tilted his head, studying my expression with the same analytical stare I’d come to expect from him. “Do you really believe that?”

“I know that.”

He glowered at me for several long moments, his jaw ticking, waiting for me to change course. But I wouldn’t. Not over this.

“Then stop seeing her.”

“What?” I blinked repeatedly, his words catching me off guard.

“I’ve held my tongue about you using Imogene. But I won’t do it anymore. Not when I’ve just witnessed for myself the emotional toll this is taking on her. You said no one innocent would get hurt.”

He gestured toward the screen still paused on Imogene’s anguished expression as she clutched her chest.

“Well, she’s innocent, Sam. Yet, she’s still hurt. And it’s only going to get worse the more time you spend with her. The more lies you tell her.”

I swallowed down the guilt festering inside me as I stared into her eyes, wishing I could wrap her in my arms and assure her it would all be okay. But I couldn’t. Not when I was the cause of her current heartache.

Drawing in a deep breath, Henry returned his gaze to mine. “You know I love you like a brother and I understand why you’re doing all of this. But maybe you need to stop being so worried about protecting her from Liam. Instead, maybe the person you should be protecting her from is you.”

Chapter Four

Imogene

“What the hell is going on here?”

I snapped my head up, momentarily disoriented as I took in my surroundings with bleary eyes.

The sun had begun to set, casting a dim orange glow over the living room. How long had I been going through this box of memories? Long enough for Melanie to not only show up at my townhouse, but also let herself in.

Since getting home, I’d been consumed with going through every article and report I’d saved about Samuel’s death. Then I got the great idea to see if there had been any recent articles. As expected, there weren’t any, apart from the obligatory public relations stories about the annual golf tournament Liam hosted in honor of his murdered friend — the most recent one being last weekend.

Somewhere along the way, I switched gears and began researching how long fingerprints could last on objects, specifically glass. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything definitive. The general consensus was that it all depended on the environment and what elements it had been exposed to. Considering the glass was found in a temperature-controlled environment with low humidity and wasn’t exposed to any outdoor elements, it was entirely possible the prints could have been from before Samuel died.

But why was it left on the coffee table beside the glass Alton had been drinking out of? Wasn’t that suspicious?

Or was I just grasping at straws again? Holding on to the tiniest sliver of hope that Samuel was still alive when all rationale told me he was gone?

“Is there a reason you’re going through all of this?”

“Mel, I… What are you doing here?” I pulled myself to my feet, stretching my neck from side to side, my muscles sore from spending the past few hours hunched over. “Weren’t you going to check on Liam?” I asked, trying to divert her attention away from the papers scattered on the coffee table and floor.

“I did. Like I thought you were, too.”

“Shit.” I ran a hand over my face. “I meant to call, but I got…distracted.”

“Apparently,” she snipped back with an exaggerated roll of her eyes as she walked into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.

Once she took a sip, she leaned against the island, crossing a single arm in front of her stomach. It was obvious she came straight from work. Her tall and slender frame was dressed in a crisp, white button-down shirt tucked into a pencil skirt, her dark hair falling in waves down to her mid-back. A pair of animal print heels completed the look. It was a stark contrast to my current appearance of yoga pants and a t-shirt, my blonde hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun.

“Want to tell me why you’re surrounded by articles about Samuel?” Her expression softened as she moved toward me. “I thought you were past this.”

I parted my lips, searching my brain for a way to explain this without sounding like I was losing my mind.

“Not that you need to forget him entirely,” she added quickly. “I’m not saying that. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself, Ginny. I get that this time of year is hard, since it’s almost the fifth anniversary of his death. I thought you were only going to look forward. Not backward. Thought you were going to stop clinging to a ghost.”

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