Page 58 of Wrecked for Love
Log hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck like he was about to unload a whole hay bale’s worth of trouble. “My wife noticed something the other night. Claire’s driver’s license. It was expired.”
He must’ve gotten a copy when she signed the lease for The Willow. I shrugged it off. “So what? Happens to the best of us. Hell, mine was expired for two months before Hank dragged me to the DMV.”
But Log didn’t crack a smile. I could see in his eyes that this wasn’t some casual observation. Something was off.
“Yeah, but that’s not it, El. There was something else we noticed. The photo—it looked like her, sure, but…not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”
He grimaced. “Honestly? It’s not her, man. It’s someone else’s picture.”
Tension built under my skin. “You got a copy?”
“Not with me. But El, I’m telling you because I care, all right? I know you and Claire are tight, and I love her too, man. But…you’ve got to ask her. Something isn’t adding up.”
I already knew Claire had secrets. We both knew it. But this…this was different. Log wasn’t the type to meddle in my business without good reason.
“Or you know,” Log added carefully, “searches are easy these days.”
“What the hell are you getting at?” I asked, my voice strained.
He looked away, guilt etched into his features. “I’m telling you this because you’re my best friend. Claire isn’t who she says she is.”
The back of my neck prickled. “Fuck, Log. What are you trying to do to me?” My voice cracked, betraying the fear I was holding back.
He sighed, his voice dropping even lower. “Clare Ashbourne—the name on her license…that woman died years ago.”
Everything stopped, the world tipping sideways. That was why she had kept her hair brunette, hiding her natural blonde, because she had to look like this woman—Clare Ashbourne.
He kept going mercilessly. “Her father, Dr. Rick Ashbourne, a veterinarian, was murdered last year.”
I couldn’t breathe. “Were they from New York?”
Log nodded. “Yeah, and apparently, that murder was linked to an unsolved massacre in Brentwood, right outside the city. The sister of one of the victims managed to flee the scene. The cops didn’t know who killed who. It was a damn mess, some New York gangster fallout. But they knew at least one of the victims had been killed by a gun that didn’t belong to anyone left at the scene. And a hundred grand was missing.”
“Shit, man!” I barely managed to speak, my head spinning. “And Clare Ashbourne…was she murdered, too?”
“No. She died in a car accident. Her asshole boyfriend was drunk. She did move to Chicago as her driver’s license said, but she died in New York.”
My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. Everything blurred together like oil spreading across muddy water—dark on dark, toxic on dirty. “The missing sister…what was her name?”
“Claire Magnussen.”
The name sounded foreign, turning the woman I knew into someone completely different. I nodded, still grappling with the shock of the revelation. “And her brother…don’t tell me Cody Magnussen was one of the victims in that massacre.”
Log gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah, he was.”
What the hell was I supposed to do? Claire wasn’t some fantasy—she was real. Imperfect, and yet I loved every bit of it. My mistake wasn’t in loving her. It was in not asking the right questions.
Hell, I bought a brand new mattress, hoping she’d stay over more. Not for me. I’d slept on that half-lumpy thing for years. But for her? I wanted it to be comfortable for both of us. And tonight, I was going to surprise her.
Frustration boiled over, and I walked away from Logan to kick the tire of my truck.
“El! El!” Log was right behind me, calling out. “Man, just take a breath. Let it settle. Don’t do anything rash. Talk to her. Ask her, man.”
But I wasn’t sure if I had the patience to hear her out. She’d had plenty of chances to come clean. I thought we had something solid enough for honesty. Her secrets weren’t just a new name and a fresh persona or some guy chasing her down. She’d hinted at trouble with her brother, sure, but she failed tomention the murders she’d committed. And if she had a reason, she damn well knew I would’ve listened.
Now, even if she told me everything…could I believe her?
