Page 124 of Ugly Truths
Elena’s stomach moves beneath my hand, her breathing a gentle, needed reminder that she’s still here. Alive, just like Natalie.
Because of Jeff.
I haven’t been able to shake the images from the CCTV footage. It happened so fast. Even Cillian barely had time to react to the tinted SUV that sped past, its back window sliding down to reveal the muzzle of a gun. Jeff’s quick dive to shield Elena and Natalie before the chaotic scramble that followed.
We received the autopsy results yesterday morning. Jeff was shot four times: in the aorta, pelvis, shoulder, and liver. They were simply too far from the hospital to stop the bleeding in time. It’s a cruel, clinical summary of someone who did something so selfless.
I’d started warming up to Jeff when he started coming to the house, but I liked him more after meeting Lauren. He watched her with adoration and pride, a softness in his eyes that I only saw muted versions of when he interacted with Elena. It was no wonder he was one of Elena’s favorite people.
He was good. Loyal. Brave.
Jeff probably never realized it, but all his cumulative actions since he met Elena had done the impossible: he bought us time. He trained her to keep her safe and gave her a place to heal and hide from me until enough of my rage had burned off to keep her alive.
Jeff’s the reason we’re here right now. I owe him everything. And now, that debt is Lauren’s, because she has to figure out how to survive without him.
Elena breaks the quiet, startling me. “Have you figured out who did it yet?” she asks, voice hoarse.
Davey was back in Chicago within twelve hours of Jeff’s death. We sent our private plane to bring him back while Paul stayed behind to monitor the facility, which remains in a state of limbo but stable.
He has also been handling his work and our investigation from home, keeping an eye on Natalie, who seems to be coping slightly better than Elena. We have been working relentlessly to track down the SUV, but it’s all led to dead ends. Not to mention the police’s involvement has only complicated things.
Apart from the footage captured on Jeff’s cameras, all other surrounding surveillance videos have been wiped from any available systems we’ve been able to identify within a two-mile radius of the gym, which are already sparse in that area of the city to begin with. The SUV was stolen and the car was ditched not far from the shooting, leaving us no trail to follow.
Each problem has been an infuriating echo of the issues we faced when searching for the man who held Elena at gunpoint and the subsequent ransacking of her apartment in the spring.
The team is certain these are Peter’s methods—meticulous, brutal, erasing every trace aside from the one camera they wanted us to see. Even with everyone agreeing, I can’t bring myself to tell Elena. She already knows the answer, but admitting it out loud will only confirm her worst fear. She is already haunted by guilt for things she couldn’t control. I can't be the one to tell her Peter killed another person she loves. I just can’t do that to her.
Gently, I roll Elena to face me. A sliver of relief cuts through me at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. Dried tears stain her cheeks and her lips are chapped, but she’s lucid.
"We don't have anything concrete," I tell her, which is the truth. We don't have definitive proof it was Peter. I don't give her a chance to respond or press for more details. Instead, I draw her close, brushing my lips to her forehead and lingering there.
She remains motionless, and a deep ache spreads through me, wishing she’d place a hand on my side, my chest—anywhere.
I speak softly, letting the words flow directly onto her skin, “You need to eat something.”
The silence that follows feels as heavy as the darkness surrounding us until she murmurs back, “I'm not hungry.”
“I know,” I say, running a hand up her side. “Kendall made chicken pot pie.” My voice softens. “Try to have a little, for me. Please.” The words are almost desperate.
I don't rush to get the bowl yet, choosing instead to savor this brief moment of clarity, though her lack of refusal lifts some of the weight off my chest.
She lets me hold her for longer than she has in days, but it’s only a few minutes before she begins to tremble. Her whole frame shakes with the effort of keeping the sobs contained. All of my limbs tighten, as if I can absorb the pain and carry it for her.
“I love you,” I breathe, my voicelow and fervent. “So damn much. I'm so sorry.” It feels like the only thing I can say, and it still isn’t enough.
Elena exhales raggedly, and then she leans into me, her arms wrapping tightly around my middle. The pressure momentarily steals my breath.
She’s hugging me back.
Her sobs continue: relentless, raw, and broken. I whisper every comfort I can think of into her ear, my hand tracing soothing paths up and down her back. And we ride out the worst of it, her fingers digging into my sides while she convulses in agony for far too long.
It feels like hours, but eventually—thankfully—Elena's sobs begin to diminish into painful whimpers. She buries her face into the crook of my neck, her breath still uneven.
I'm poised for a brief reprieve, but instead, her voice shatters it. "I'm going to kill him," she rasps, each word a serrated edge against my skin. “With my bare fucking hands.” Her body locks up in fury. “He’s going to beg for me to by the end of it.”
Her honest, brutal words stir something in me. The parts I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to rebury. I’d forced them deep beneath the surface, desperate to put as much distance as possible between those instincts and the man I’m trying to be, despite how easily they once defined my father.
But her voice calls them back like a summons.
