Page 131 of Wait For It

I wasn’t alone.

Mama. Morgan. Ashlynn. Women I’d never even met before. Their bodies were buried in the muck, mouths transfixed in horror. And, at the very bottom—Killian. His eyes, now wholly gray, were fixed on mine. But he was dead. Just like the rest of them.

Needless to say, it hadn’t instilled a lot of confidence in what I was about to do.

I got sick again with a low groan before stumbling over to the sink to rinse my mouth and wash my hands. Someone had come and done my makeup and hair, but no beauty product could erase the look of terror from my eyes.

Dean was waiting on the other side of the door with a mint and a lifted brow. “You really don’t handle stress very well, do you?”

I took the mint from his hand with a weak smile and rasped, “Apparently not.”

He pinned a microphone to the thick cashmere scarf knotted around my neck. It was the only accessory effective in covering the bruises around my throat. Tristan had it delivered to my room just after dawn, along with a Ponte knit dress that fell just past my knees. My wounds were draped in black, completely hidden from view.

With my understated makeup and messy twisted chignon updo, I was the picture of elegant mourning.

“He’s ready to see you in his office,” Dean murmured, making a final adjustment to the device.

Fear coated my tongue, along with bitter aftertaste of vomit, but I managed a small nod. “And everyone is still safe?”

“Completely,” he reassured me. “Just remember what you came here to do.”

As if I had the luxury to consider anything else.

I slowly made my way down the hall, my heels clicking loudly against the stained concrete floor with each measured step. When I reached the familiar mahogany door, I stopped and waited for the surge of bravery to flood my veins.

There was nothing but a steady drip of terror.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and rapped my knuckles against the wood.

“Come in,” Tristan said, using his preacher’s voice. When he saw it was me, there was a brief flash of venom in his eyes. “Ariana, sit.”

Blink. Blink.

I perched on the edge of a chair almost identical to the one in his office at the house. My hands were folded in my lap to mask the shaking.

“Have you spoken to Morgan since you’ve been home?” he asked, inspecting his manicured fingernails. He’d insisted on separate rooms after their marriage, only allowing her into his bed when he wanted sex.

“I’ve been locked in my room,” I answered sweetly. “Or did you forget?”

“Dammit, Ariana!” Tristan jabbed a finger in my direction. “Don’t play games with me—not today! If you know where she is, you need to tell me right now!”

“I have no idea,” I answered truthfully. “But if she’s smart, she’ll never come back.”

He smiled coldly. “And why is that, little dove? What makes you so sure she’d want to leave all of this behind?”

My stomach somersaulted in my belly, urging me to keep my mouth shut unless I wanted to coat the surface of his desk in stomach acid.

“The convertible,” I gulped, resisting the urge to reach up and touch my necklace. “The night of the accident, I took the convertible.”

His expression shifted to one of boredom. “Yes, I’m aware of that, little dove. I fail to see what it has to do with Morgan, though.”

Shit. Damn. Hell.

“She was supposed to be in the car that night,” I admitted, balling my hands into fists against my skirt. “It was her car, after all.”

Tristan shrugged easily and leaned back in his chair with a low chuckle. “So, you took her car and wrecked it. I bought her another. Again, I’m not following how any of this relates to her sudden disappearance.”

He wasn’t going to admit to a single thing—not without proof, of which I had none. I lightly bit down on the inside of my cheek and glanced up at the clock on the wall.

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