Page 11 of Twisted Truths
“Hadley,” he repeats.
I quickly hide my shaking hands behind my back before he can see. Unfortunately, the movement causes my chest to press out, and his gaze lowers to my breasts. All the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the cramped space, and my breathing hitches as he takes a step towards me.
“Why have I never met you before, Hadley?” he muses, lifting a hand and brushing a stray piece of auburn hair off my face. My skin tingles at his touch, and I do my best to remain still and not react to his proximity. From all the stories I’ve heard about this dangerous man, I do not want to make him angry.
I have my reasons for avoiding him, and I’m cursing that after three years he now knows who I am. For me to remain safe, I need to stay off Gabriel Solomon’s radar.
“I don’t know,” I respond, finally tearing my gaze from his. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish?—”
My words cut off abruptly when his thumb and forefinger grip my chin, and he tips my head back until I’m looking up at him.
“Where were you?” he growls.
Shit.
“Uh…”Think Hadley.My hand dips into my back pocket and I pull out the spare rag I placed there before I left the bathroom. “I had to get another cleaning cloth.”
With the way he’s holding my face, I’m unable to look away from him, and I try to hold my gaze steady. Internally, my heart is racing and all the nerves in my body are firing at the blazing heat in his eyes. I’d expected to see anger, not this molten look of sadness mixed with … desire?
Any hope of staying off his radar for the Awakening next month has gone out the window.
“It’s uncanny,” he murmurs to himself more than me, his thumb brushing over my lower lip as his tongue runs over his own.
My breath hitches.
His eyes search my face, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for.
After what feels like an age, he finally shakes his head and takes a step back. “I’ll leave you to it, Hadley.”
He pushes past me without another word, and I slump against the counter, my breaths coming out in short, sharp pants. That was way too close.
Chapter Five
NASH
“What are our options?” Levi asks Ryan Shaw.
After our little chat with Shane Elliot the other day, Levi called Paige’s uncle to make an appointment at his law firm, which is how we found ourselves in Rafters Falls, the closest town to Barrenridge, sitting in Ryan’s corner office at Conway and Shaw.
Ryan leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Not a lot, I’m afraid.”
“She’s not a murderer, Ryan,” I snap, trying and failing to keep the angry bite out of my tone. “I won’t let the town tarnish her name by calling her one.”
He strokes his jaw as he stares down at the copy of the initial police report. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying there’s not a lot we can do now they’ve closed the case. It’s not surprising, with the overwhelming evidence stacked up against her.” Ryan holds up his hand, lifting a finger as he ticks off each documented fact. “She was covered in their blood. The murder weapon had her prints on it. There were no signs of a struggle, or anyone else in the house.” He pauses, his resignedgaze falling on me. “She left a note apologising for her actions. On paper, it’s a pretty cut and dry case.”
My fists clench in frustration, and I open my mouth, ready to snap at Ryan again, but Levi places his hand on my arm, stopping me.
“Apart from the obvious question of how the hell did she overpower Paul, instead of telling us how challenging it’s going to be, you could focus on telling us what wecando to prove Zara’s innocence,” he says, his voice steady but firm.
“The note in Zara’s handwriting is pretty damning,” Ryan says, picking up the photograph of the note. “It’s going to be hard to argue against something so black and white. You’ll have to find substantial evidence to prove the letter was forged or that she wrote it under duress.”
My stomach turns. I remember the way Zara’s handwriting used to flow, neat and precise. The thought of her leaving behind a note—an admission of guilt—feels wrong, like it doesn’t fit. But the police found it, and the town believes it. I’ve heard the whispers, seen the pity in their eyes as they pass me in the streets.
“How do we do that?”
“It will be difficult, especially as this note is so short. Have you got anything we can compare it to? I can send it to a handwriting analysis expert in Sydney. It will take a week or so to get the results, but it might give us an idea of whether we can dispute it.”
“I’m sure I can find something. What do we do in the meantime?” I ask. “I can’t sit around and wait while the real murderer gets away with it.”
