Page 49 of 4th Silence
“Charlie?”
For a few seconds, she squeezes her eyes closed, and I stay quiet, giving her space to gather herself.
Then I see it—the shift. The quiet reclaiming of power.
“Mary,” I say. “It has to be her. It’s all lies.”
“Damn straight.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I have to make a statement. I need to talk to JJ and—damn it. Garrett.”
Her former FBI boss.
“He’ll lose his mind,” she continues. “If he’s not already. His reputation is everything to him. This stunt is a beauty.” She huffs. “But it’s not going to scare me off. This only proves the Hartmans have something to hide. I cannot wait to talk Mary.”
“We should huddle up back at the office. You can give the press there a statement, we’ll triage and then visit Mary.”
Charlie nods. “Agreed.” She shifts the car into drive. “We’ve got the next fifteen minutes to come up with a good sound bite.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we shove through the back door of the office, breathless and rattled after being swarmed by the local press. This is what celebrities feel like—trapped by cameras, stalked by paparazzi.
Before we were even out of the car, the hungry pack converged, encircling us.
Charlie handled it like a pro. Calm and composed while delivering a statement about false and defamatory claims, her unwavering commitment to victims, and her demand for a retraction.
Done.
You go, girl.
My sister doesn’t weather storms. She is the storm.
Inside, I lock the door behind us in case a reporter gets bold.
Charlie wastes no time heading for her office. “I’ll be a few minutes,” she calls. “I need to speak with JJ and Garrett. And our lawyer. What a mess.”
I exhale, my body sagging under the weight of everything we’ve just endured.
Five minutes. That’s all I need. My noise-canceling headphones, a little deep breathing, and I’ll be back in the game.
I make the turn into my office and—whoa. Jerome stands near my worktable, his long artist’s fingers gliding over one of my brushes.
His honey blond hair falls in its normal shaggy waves around his ears, and my heart thumps.
Skidding to a halt, something inside me bursts. I’ve spent days avoiding him. Yes, there’s been a fair amount of self-flagellation over it, but what I’m feeling now, the instant joy, the bone-deep missing, is…confusing.
How can I love him this much and still be afraid to marry him?
Ever-so-slowly, he angles away from the table and faces me. “Hi.”
His tone is flat and…something. Something like sadness or disappointment. Panic slithers over my skin. My lack of attention, my total disregard for his mention of marriage, has done this to him.
I’ve done this to him.
I rush him. Just hurdle toward him, throwing myself into his arms.
