Page 71 of Pulse
“What?”
“Shhh …” I say, making sure no one overheard her.
“Oh, my God. He beat up Burt?” She takes my phone from me and holds it to her mouth. “Is he okay? What the hell happened?”
She looks at me helplessly. I pull her into my side. It’s all I can do.
“Apparently, Freddy was at your house milling around,” Ford tells her. “And Burt came out on his porch and confronted him.”
“Oh, no,” she says, her shoulders falling.
“Burt had already called nine-one-one before he went outside, so the police were already on their way. In retrospect, that might have saved his life.”
Dahlia’s hand goes over her mouth. “I can’t … Is Burt okay?”
“He’ll live. Lacerations to the face and hands. A broken rib. Two black eyes. The police picked Freddy up a street over and charged him with resisting arrest, assault, and possession of drugs. Other charges are pending.”
“Is Freddy in jail?” I ask.
“He bonded out this morning.”
Dahlia’s eyes squeeze closed, and I think she whispers a prayer. I take the phone from her. She gives it up without a fight.
“This is my fault,” she says.
“This is not your fault.” I lift her chin so she has to look at me. “I mean it. Not your fault.”
Her eyes are cloudy with tears, and I hate it. Even more, I hate the motherfucker that’s doing this to her—and that hurt a poor old man.
“So Freddy is losing his shit,” I say. “Are we thinking he’s responsible for all of this?”
Ford takes a breath. “Actually, no. I have a bit more news on that front.”
Dark clouds roll across the sky as thunder rolls in the distance.
“We’ve been able to trace the IP address from the email you received with the pictures,” Ford says. “We thought there would be a VPN on it to block the sender’s location, but there wasn’t.”
Dahlia looks at me warily. “Who sent it?”
“It came from your father’s house.”
Fucking hell. I run a hand over the top of my head in frustration.
“What?” she asks, struggling to accept this information. “Are you sure?”
“We’re sure. Can you tell us who frequents his house? Who would be there using their internet connection?”
She shakes her head as if trying to rattle herself awake. “Um, I don’t know, really. I’ve only been there a few times. My father, obviously. Alexis. They have staff, but I don’t know who they are or how many.”
I grab her hand and hold it tightly.
“We did a little digging and Alexis was in New Orleans the day you received the email. Unless she scheduled it previously, she wasn’t home to hit send.”
Dahlia takes my phone again, pacing a small circle.
I wish we were at the house so we could sit. I never should’ve brought her here.
“So what are you thinking?” I ask Ford.
