Page 52 of The Reluctant Hero

Gabe recaptures my attention as he holds up one of the letters and mutters, “What are the odds?”

“Slim at best,” I glance down at the sheet in my hand.

With each of us handling the envelopes, fingerprints will be a crapshoot. If she gets another one, we can send it in, butthese won’t net us much. Each page has a carefully printed name in large font in the same style—nothing else.

A young woman, alone, in this kind of setting, receiving this type of letter makes what I’m seeing even more depressing. How is she not afraid? This has to be a setup of some kind. No woman would be so unconcerned with receiving countless pages from an unknown sender, regardless of the contents.

“This is a lot more than we thought,” Ace shuffles through pages with a scowl. “And the fuckers are sendin’ it toher. Why?”

I look back at the closed drawer. I know there’s more in there. She moved things to the side before she handed the names over. What is she hiding?

The drawer opens smoothly to reveal a few missed manila envelopes. I pick one up and take in the smaller white envelope underneath. They have the same bland label with her name and address on it without postage or a return address.

“There’s more,” I mutter and dig one out and then another. There are several. I can feel something thicker than pages inside the one in my hand. I tip it and watch four photographs fall to the counter.

I immediately want to stuff them back inside with disgust. This is unrefined pornography at its finest. The shots are amateurish close-ups of women’s faces or body parts. The only sign there’s a man involved is a hand or a random view of his cock inside them. My brows furrow as I bring one closer to my face.

“What’s that?” Ace asks, turning his ever-present anger on me instead of an inanimate object.

“Porn,” I reply helplessly.

“Excuse me?” Gabe raises a brow and snatches the photo out of my hand. The immediate distaste on his face makes mesmirk. The fucker could have asked for one. It’s not like it had Amanda in it.

That thought makes me clear my throat. My one tell of discomfort. Gabe gives me a bewildered look for it. I’m not telling him what got me hot. It certainly wasn’t what I’m looking at now. My semi goes down immediately when I take in a new photo.

Ace stands at my side and picks up another white envelope. When the pictures come out, his expression drops into disgust. The man has no interest in pornography whatsoever. He said he prefers the real thing to pictures. I can suddenly understand where he’s coming from.

The room in each picture has the same dark red walls and black silk sheets. Not a bedroom or hotel room. This looks like a brothel. In one, I can just barely make out a row of sex toys hanging from the wall. All with the same hand adorned with a ring shown. Odd that so many of them have this as a prominent feature. A message only the perfect viewer would receive.

The ring is a heavy white-gold piece with a single square diamond pressed into the surface. A wedding ring. Upending another envelope reveals another woman with the same theme to the pictures. It’s obvious, based on the ring and the manicure it’s all the same man, no matter which woman is present. He’s been busy.

Who the fuck gets manicures? Rich men trying to impress women. The ones who don’t work with their hands much. Office types. Gabe types. No calluses in sight. Smooth knuckles. It must be nice.

“There’s more?” Gabe asks in a hiss of anger when he sees the open drawer and the scattered stack of envelopes left.

I find a better view of the ring in a photo. Unfortunately, it’s a nauseating close-up of a woman being taken from behind.

“Ace,” I mutter and turn the photo towards him.

“The fuck, Mik?” Ace smacks my hand down.

“The ring. It’s a wedding ring. Is it the same one in yours?”

Gabe and Ace glance at me in confusion and then look at their photos.

“Yeah. A cheatin’ fuck,” Ace’s voice trails off as his eyes meet mine. He’s following my thoughts. I can tell because of the rage rebuilding in his eyes. “You don’t think this isBlake, do you?”

“They all have that ring in them somewhere. The same man in each photo. No face shots for him, though. They’re not sending names alone. But why this too?” I dig out more to verify, passing them around so I’m not the only one forced to look.

“Could Amanda be the photographer?” Gabe asks with a dark look of censure.

The thought of it disgusts me, and I can’t say why. I’ve participated in my fair share of bacchanalian acts.

Amanda does not seem like the type. Not to mention, Ace believes she left because Blake is cheating. The fact that she’s keeping these photos hidden in her mystery drawer is telling.

But we’re all jaded with our own views on how to perceive a guilty party. She has our attention in more ways than one, which brings the caution level up considerably. It’s one thing to have an informant or spy in the ranks. Another when each of us wants to keep her.

If she is guilty of anything, could I punish her for it? Lock her away until she learns better, yes. Abuse her for it? No. And I’ve only met her twice now. I’m just as bad as Ace, a mindset that baffled me previously. You can’t own a person no matter how hard you try.

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