Page 49 of Ace

"Murdered?"

The word is foreign to me. Of all the ways we've lost loved ones, that word just doesn't compute.

And as if I haven't been dealt a big enough blow, he keeps on talking.

"We think William hired out the job."

Chapter 21

Ace

I realize I might've been able to prevent her from calling her brothers, but I knew I wouldn't be able to prevent her from going to California. It's why I'm sitting beside her in first class on the way to the Golden State.

I could say a lot of things, but I saw the resolution in her eyes when I didn't kiss her back. I know the rejection probably stung. She wouldn't have tried to kiss me if she thought there was a chance I wouldn't reciprocate. I know her to be a woman who doesn't take many risks, not counting her little trip to the spa earlier in the week.

Add on top of the news she just got about her sister, and I don't doubt the woman went from wanting to kiss me to get her mind off the bad news to hating me completely.

Giving her something she wanted at the moment would end up being seen as me taking advantage of her when the dust settled. I can be a jerk right now, but I'm not going to be an asshole she hates for the rest of her life.

I'm not so egotistical to think that she's pounding back glasses of white wine like she's at a frat party because of me but it doesn't make it any easier to watch.

My job is technically over. Kincaid asked me to help find Sadie Preston, and even though this is the worst-case scenario, she's been located.

I called him back, all but putting myself on the murder investigation because I just can't seem to distance myself from Cora.

I felt my own pain and regrets while witnessing her grief, and that may make me a glutton for pain. I went through my loss over Noah all alone, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Plus, I need more information. All arrows point to William Preston, Jr. as being the one who set Sadie's murder into motion, but we don't have anything concrete. The man has made it his life’s mission to keep his secrets hidden.

"Can I get another?" Cora asks, her words slow and coated with a haze of inebriation.

"I'm so sorry," the flight attendant says with a gentle smile. "You've reached the limit allowed by the FFA."

"Okay," Cora whispers, just accepting that there are rules in place.

There might be, but I'm not aware of any. I know alcohol on the plane has to be served by the airline and that pilots have an eight-hour bottle-to-throttle rule, but I'm not aware of any limits on customers so long as they aren't being unruly.

Whatever the flight attendant's reasoning, I'm grateful for it. The hour and a half between now and landing in San Diego won't give her enough time to sober up, but at least she won't have the chance to pound anymore back between now and then.

She hasn't spoken much to me outside of thanking me for making flight arrangements. I didn't explain to her that Cerberus's spending isn't something William can track, and it's best if he doesn't get suspicious about what she's up to.

He has to know she was in DC because she used her personal credit card, and if he's tracking her spending, then he's tracking her vehicle as well. So, with a little encouragement on my part, she left her cell phone and the entire contents of her purse, other than the things requiredto get on a plane and a few changes of clothes from her hotel room, behind.

Landing goes off without a problem because she fell asleep not fifteen minutes after her drink order was rejected. It killed me to watch the softness on her face transform, and it was nearly unbearable to watch a tear leak from her closed eye. Even in her sleep, she can't seem to escape the sadness.

***

"This isn't going to be what you're used to," I say when the cab pulls up outside of the hotel. "But we'll be safe here."

I hold out a ten to the man who opened her door before waiting for him to pull luggage from the trunk of the cab.

He thanks me as I press my palm to her back and urge her to enter the lobby of the hotel.

"I'm not some snobby bitch," she mutters, making me realize that she may not be flat-out drunk, but she isn't exactly sober either.

I bypass the front desk. Max made reservations, and in his infinite skill set, he has managed to send some form of Bluetooth code to my phone that will enable me to open the hotel room door without having to make contact with any staff.

That's a nifty little trick I haven't had access to even with ICE.

"We didn't get a key," she says once the elevator doors close. "Do you have a fuck-pad here?"

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