Page 8 of Stutter

And yet I had devoured every page. All of her scratchy annotations where she had done her own research. One by one,going back to the pages, her notes, their deaths, researching them myself. Because she had dared to speak. To me. She had parted her perfect lips, taken a breath, and sputtered her raspy apology. And as if knowing giving more of an explanation or a deeper apology would hurt her physically. But her eyes… wide with sorrow, tears, and longing for understanding, silently pleaded with me to love her despite her transgressions.

It was an image I’ll never be able to replace.

And I wanted to –desperately.

But the question remains; what to do with the goddamn ledger? Do I turn it to Detective Arlo and let him and his team handle it? Burn it? Let her unravel? Do I integrate myself in the investigation to keep an eye, make sure any evidence leading to her is redirected?

I’m surprised to see a masked Damon and Jonas watching my dark angel from the bar. Have they always been here, hiding in plain sight protecting her and I just never saw them in my drunken stupors? We watch her every move as I slip into the corner, where I’m most likely to stay and be undisturbed, where I can watch as the last sane Prescott roves his hands over what’s mine as one by one, unmasked individuals as audacious as him approach, unbuttoning their suit jackets as they sit around the crescent-shaped velvet sofa, drinks in hand.

He pats her plump bottom and whispers something to her. I growl and it goes unheard over the music, the woman I’m sure is Raven is swaying her hips to. The more I watch I can see how nervous she is, how she stays close to the conversation, tilting her ear toward them, her head, and when the song is over, she goes back to him, to his lap. His hands once more roaming over her body.

Mybody. The one I owned. It was mine. All mine.

And she leans into it. To his touch. The thought of being replaced sends me into a jealous rage. I take a step forward but a motion out of the corner of my eye twenty feet away stops me. My eyes flick to where Jonas is shaking his head at me, one palm raised in a silent STOP and then has his hands raised to his mid-section as to not draw attention.

Gathering information.

I quirk a dark brow in his direction because he’s obviously been practicing his ASL. I gather my courage, finally after three weeks, and stride to the bar to order another drink beside them. Like before, Damon turns to face the club, inconspicuously, and I stay facing the wall of mirrors and shelved liquor, taking a seat on the stool with a red velvet buttoned cushion.

He holds his classic Old Fashioned, me with my fresh two fingers of Macallan and for almost too long neither of us say anything. Another song plays, low and sultry, the tension thick between us but then, “Have you made your decision?”

“There was a detective literally at my door.” I grumble, the memory of Arlo still makes my stomach churn and my brain pulsate against my temples. I suppose I could blame that on the alcohol as well.

“I see.”

No, he doesn’t see, his attitude is too fucking nonchalant for me. It was my workplace. I was fucking blindsided not by my girlfriend, not by her partners I was beginning to see as my friends but by some motherfucker I didn’t even know. Christ I unknowingly got rid of evidence. If anything, that shit was sloppy.

“Do they know or suspect anything else?”

I straighten my back at his bold question. “No.”

Damon sighs. It’s rich and I can feel the sorrow in his voice that matches the feeling in my chest. “It was an honest mistake, one she never meant to make. She didn’t mean for that to happen the way it did and she regrets having dragged you into this. She’s been a mess without you, our little bird.”

Our little bird.

Our.

The word bounces between my ears. It feels far away and yet… it feels right. And that makes me happy. I take a sip of my drink, hiding the way one elementary word makes me soar. Even though it shouldn’t. Because my head and my heart are even further at war and the whiskey is in no way helping, when I let it further settle over my tongue, welcoming the accompanying burn. “Which of you was the second shadow?”

No answer.

“Can you promise it won’t happen again?”

The stern “No.” comes from Jonas. “I help her clean up what I can, but I can’t make any promises it will always be perfect.”

“Like the wig in my trash I had to burn?” I chastise. I’m being a fucking asshole and I know it but my anger stems from being kept in the dark for so long.

This time they both face me. Gunmetal first then hazel eyes meet mine. Damon lifts a heavy shoulder and Jonas fails to hide his smirk, leaving me to believe they think I accept this. That I’ve betrayed my own morals and ethics, same as them, for her, for them. For this dysfunctional family that just works. But haven’t I?

“Like the wig in the trash youchoseto burn, Maverick.” Jonas says, still scanning the room, one elbow on the bar, looking bored as fuck.

The whiskey in my stomach sours. “How many more?” I slur the question.

“Until it’s done.”

_______

I wake on a couch that isn’t my couch, in a house that isn’t mine, a needle in my arm that’s connected to an IV bag of fluids, the urge to piss but not vomit, and a headache that is minimal, although there. On the coffee table to my right is a mini bottle of water, two ibuprofen and a note that says,

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