Page 72 of Stolen Love

Rogue tips his head toward mine. “Who?”

“I…” I shake my head. “A woman and a little girl… I wish I knew who they were.”

“Can you tell us anything more?” Adira asks.

"Uh… the woman and the little girl both have long blonde hair.” I tug on a strand of Adira’s wig. “It’s whiter than this. And the little girl is wearing pink.”

Adira and Rogue exchange glances. Adira shakes his head.

“Anything else?” Rogue asks.

“All I know is that I must have met them in a park because I remember there being play equipment. And it must have been cold because they were dressed in puffy winter jackets.”

“And you’re certain this is important?”

I have a visceral reaction when I think of them. I can practically smell the bark chips and hear the squeal of other children in the distance. And my eyes blur with the need to cry. “I can’t be certain. It just feels like it has to be.”

“White hair?” Adira taps his chin with one black fingernail. His face contorts in concentration. “It’s not ringing my bell.”

“My knee hurt for some reason.” I touch the knee in question. I have a small scar there, barely noticeable after so many years. And yet somehow I know this memory is of the day that I got it. “I think I tripped and fell. I was definitely crying before I saw them.”

The memory doesn’t grow any clearer no matter how hard I try to focus on it.

Eventually the assembled mourners hush as the memorial begins. Rebel trudges to the stage when it’s time. His shoulders collapse forward as he adjusts the mic and glances down at the paper in his hands. “What can I say about Marty Kendall?”

He stumbles on his words a few times as he speaks about a friend he lost and then found again. A woman who was passionate and so very driven. A woman who would never allow herself to be silenced without a fight.

His words turn watery and get stuck in the back of his throat a few times. They bring tears to the gathered. And the occasional sprout of nostalgic amusement.

Her grandfather sobs quietly throughout the whole thing.

“Marty was always in pursuit of the story,” Rebel continues. “There was no stone she would not turn to shed light on the truth. Even if sometimes we’d rather she hadn’t. But it was that same dedication that we appreciated so much in her. That made her so loyal and so brave.”

I think… I’m certain… I’m being watched. Of course there are a lot of paparazzi here, and while they came to mourn Marty that doesn’t mean I’m not still a person of interest to them. But this is different. It makes me squirm. Uncrossing and crossing my legs, I tug the hem of my skirt as close to my knees as possible. But the creep factor sticks like static cling.

Pretending to turn and whisper to Adira, I catch his eyes on me.

His mouth twists into an ugly smile.

Alec is here.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Rogue

I can tell when Ivy spots Alec because she turns to stone next to me. Her spine is rigid and she doesn’t pull a breath for the longest time. Her fingers curl on her thighs, the nails digging into her flesh.

Her eyes round as she swings her attention back to Rebel while he offers the podium to anyone else who wants to say a few words.

I slip an arm around her shoulder and glance over mine just long enough to catch Alec’s lips stretching over his teeth. The way he watches his sister… there’s something so vicious about it. A gleam in his eye that makes me want to jump up and rush him across the many rows of mourners between us.

I make eye contact with Jackson, who nods. That eases the tension in me an almost insignificant amount, but if Alec tries to make a scene or gets close to Ivy on our way out, he’ll handle the situation.

A few familiar faces get up to share their memories of Marty. Then her editor. And her cameraman who apparently she was dating. Something I would have known if I hadn’t spent years holding the grudge of all grudges.

Our last few run-ins had revolved around Ro and then Ivy. I wish I’d taken the time to find out what was going on in her world too. I pinch the bridge of my nose and bow my head as the burn behind my eyes increases.

Then the memorial is over and people start to rise. They clump off in groups to console each other or talk in murmurs to Marty’s grandfather. They walk through the exits and back to their lives.

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