Page 73 of Shattered Dreams

“Oh, right. Gross.”

Zane looks at her, prompting her to agree.

She grimaces. “It might be easier to stomach going through the reservations at the Lyndhurst that night, but I’ll call her after we land. She was cooperative and came to the Crowne, and she was on the phone in our suite when I left.”

“We’re checking out,” Zane says.

The way he said it makes me want to laugh, but I’m too worried about Zarah to give in to any humor. He’s trying to keep it from getting too heavy, and I appreciate that, but laughing now would seem like a betrayal to the kind of trouble I hope Zarah’s not in, but deep down, I know she is.

“Come here?” he asks, and Stella unbuckles her belt and crawls into his lap.

It’s sweet seeing them together, his arms wrapped around her, her head on his shoulder.

“Tell me about Zane’s party,” I say, sliding her legal pad across the table.

While she talks me through memories that are over six years old, I start my own list. Who is this elusive man Black kept referring to? I’m still not sure Zane had it right about Max’s death, but no matter how you interpret Black’s words, there’s someone steering this ship, and there are only so many men involved who have the money and power to do so.

Dr. Martin Pederson

Dr. Stephen Mallory

Ex-governor Alan Guthrie

Out of anyone, Guthrie seems like the most logical choice. He’s rich, as are most politicians, and the Blacks were associated with him—Ash Black and Guthrie’s daughter, Eleanor, had something going besides the sex-trafficking, if I recall, but Zane would know better than me. I bet if we dig a little, we’ll findGuthrie and Clayton Black did business. It’s difficult to find people in King’s Crossing who haven’t.

Guthrie was even hiding out at a lake house when Zane and I paid him a visit. Maybe he’s been seeing Jerricka all along, and they’re out there right now. It would be why we haven’t found anything under her name—because it’s not.

Stella’s voice drifts off, and she dozes in Zane’s arms.

I’ve never seen a man more tortured. Stella’s safe, her hell is behind her, but his sister is missing, and he carries the blame for all of it.

“What have you got?” he whispers.

I show him my list.

His mouth tightens. “We’ll check it out.”

Zane closes his eyes and holds on to Stella.

We’re still flying, and home is only a glimmer in the distance.

Zane and Stella drive back to the Crowne, Pop’s at their place in the country, and I...go home. Zane kindly ordered me a car, his last words telling me to get some sleep. I don’t want to sleep, don’t want to close my eyes for even a second because that’s a second I’m not searching for Zarah.

I haven’t checked my phone, and dropping heavily onto the couch, I pull it out of my jacket pocket. My mother called several times, and in a voicemail, she thanks me for letting her help me pack up Max’s apartment and the trinkets I let her keep off his bookshelf.

The fact that we packed his things this morning is surreal to me, about as surreal as knowing it wasn’t much over twelve hours ago that Zarah went willingly with Jerricka.

I’m scared to find her. I’m scared of what she’ll tell me when we finally do. We could be going through all this work, and she could tell us she wants to stay at Jerricka’s lake house. She could look at me and repeat whatever lies Jerricka wants her to say. That I want her for sex, her money, or the prestige that comes with dating Zarah Maddox, heiress to the Maddox fortune. Jerricka doesn’t want Zarah and me in a relationship, and underneath it all, I hope to God she isn’t right. That I haven’t been pushing Zarah in a direction she wasn’t meant to go.

Mallory’s watch is still inside my pocket, and I pull it out, the plastic crinkling. The blood on the face flaked away, and bits of it settle at the bottom of the evidence bag. When I was trying to connect the dots on the plane, I forgot about Ingrid and why anyone would want to kill her.

I’m vindicated, but also sorrier than hell, that Mallory confirmed the murders of the women who were patients at Quiet Meadows. It’s my fault Meredith and Troy are dead. I should have worked harder to prove Savannah didn’t kill herself. That will always be on me.

I have a difficult time believing Black could be behind their deaths, behind anything. Zane might know him better than I do, but if he was acting for the cameras, he did a fine job. Maybe we shouldn’t have talked to Ash. Maybe Clayton would have been a more reliable source of information.

Max’s journal lays on the coffee table where I left it.

Someone wanted him dead.

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