Page 66 of Jesse
Then he turned to Jackson again, his eyes narrowing. “I expected more from you, Jackson,” he said, his voice sharp with disappointment. “You were supposed to manage this.”
“I thought you trusted us to handle it, Father,” Jackson said. “Beck and I both.”
Father’s gaze lingered on him. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
Jackson’s eyes darted to me. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak.
“We found a note,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “It... specifically mentioned me.”
Father’s face darkened instantly. “You’re coming home,” he said, each word a command.
“What?” I stepped back, the word escaping before I could stop it. “No. We’re close! Closer than ever. We can’t give up now.”
Jesse stepped forward, his voice steady. “Beck’s right. If the suspect is watching, the finals tomorrow is the perfect chance to draw him out.”
Father’s lip curled in disdain, his glare cutting into me. “And how are you preparing for this so-called plan? By cooking?”
The words stung, sharper than I’d expected.
“We still need to cook,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. “We have to keep up appearances, show we’re serious about the competition. If we don’t, it’ll look suspicious.”
I was lying through my teeth, and I knew it. Somewhere deep down, I wondered if my father could see through me.
Did I believe my own argument? Not entirely.
I wanted to win the finals, not just for the investigation, but for me, for everything I had poured myself into. Still, a small, selfish part of me nagged with guilt, reminding me I shouldn’t lose sight of why this really mattered.
Father stepped closer. “But you don’t exactly need to win to do your job, do you?” he said coldly. “You’re losing focus, Beck.”
“I’m not,” I insisted, grasping at straws. “We’ve got everything under control?—”
“Enough.” His voice cut me off. “You’re still a member of the Silvercrest pack. You’re still my son. And I will not use you as bait. Pack your things.”
Panic bubbled up in my chest, and I turned to Jesse, silently pleading for help. For once, Jesse didn’t meet my eyes.
“He’s right, Beck,” Jesse said, his voice strained but firm. “I can work the counter. Someone else can handle the back. The windows are frosted. No one will know it’s not you.”
I stared at him, stunned. Of all the people to side with my father, I never expected it to be Jesse.
“You serious?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jesse’s silence was answer enough.
Heat flushed my face, the sting of rejection settling deep. They didn’t think I could handle it.
My father, Jackson, even Jesse. None of them believed in me.
Without another word, I spun on my heel, grabbing my bag and shoving my things into it.
My vision blurred as I yanked the zipper shut, refusing to look back at Jesse. I couldn’t stay here a moment longer.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked out the door.
Chapter 17
Jesse
The fairgrounds buzzed with excitement.I could hear the laughter, music, the thrum of conversation rising above the chime of game bells and the sizzle of grills firing up.
