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“Her.” My attention belatedly zones in on that single word.
Jesse sighs and rakes a hand through his dark hair. His icy eyes are tired, the lines around them more pronounced. “Yes. This one was a girl.”
“But that’s not this guy’s M.O. He always takes boys—” I shake my head. “It can’t be the same guy.”
“I know. Oscar knows. We all know. Oscar is certain, though…it’s the same man.”
Twenty
Oliver
I’msupposedtobewriting but there’s no way I can concentrate after this latest bombshell. It was hard enough before, getting the news that the Lost Boys kidnapper was on the prowl again, but Neve coming here gave me a different focus. Or maybe I was just willingly distracted because Lord knows there are way too many triggers at play here.
I have a deadline looming, but honestly, deadline be damned. It can be changed.
Anything I put down on paper right now would probably be feral, anyway. My agent will just have to deal with it.
There’s a hesitant tap on the door, and I wonder who drew the short straw to come and check up on me. Oscar came back for a break, so maybe it’s him.
“Oliver? Are you in there?” I didn’t expect to hear Neve’s voice, though I probably should have guessed. None of the guys are that considerate. They’d have either hammered so that the door frame rattled, or just barged in.
I sigh and rub my hands over my face. I’m pretty sure if I stay quiet, she’ll go away, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about her brother. Maybe this is a conversation that’s long overdue. A way to work through our shared trauma.
“Come in,” I call, before I can talk myself out of it.
Neve peers cautiously around the door, and I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile, even though it feels stiff, and beckon her inside.
“Welcome to the writing cave.”
She gives my cottage a cursory look around. It’s not like a regular living area. I have a wide desk set up with both a PC and a laptop beneath a shelf full of reference and writing craft paperbacks. Instead of artwork, there’s a large wall planner pinned to the wall with any pertinent dates I need to remember, along with a list of phone numbers for my agent, my publisher, my editor, and my marketing team, among others. I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy in those respects.
The only other piece of furniture in the room is a two-seater sofa, since if I’m not writing I prefer to spend my time in the communal areas of the main building, even without the guys.
I grab a couple of bottles of water before moving to sit there now and gesture Neve to follow.
“Are you okay?” she asks, twisting her fingers together. “Even though I had my own little meltdown, I noticed you seemed agitated and withdrawn at breakfast.”
I cover her hand with my own to stop her from picking at her cuticles. “I’m sorry, I should be asking you the same.”
She turns her hand and squeezes my fingers, encouraging me to continue, but it’s still hard to say the words. “This has hit me pretty hard. The guys are used to my occasional withdrawal, but…”
I pause and the next words are blurted from nowhere. “I knew your brother…at least, I believe I did.”
I feel Neve flinch, hear her sharp, indrawn breath, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. “You knew Nicholas? B-but how?”
I glance at her then. Taking in the elfin features, the smattering of freckles, but most of all, those distinctive green eyes. The purple-tipped hair is distracting, but I remember Nicky used to say purple was his favorite color, because of a purple dinosaur he watched on TV. “You look alike, I think.”
It hits me then. Was I drawn to Neve’s image on the PolyApp because I subconsciously acknowledged the resemblance, and Nicky had stirred my protective instincts all those years ago?
“Oliver!? What are you saying?” She shakes my arm, pulling me out of my speculative musings, her tone urgent and tinged with disbelief.
I swallow around a lump in my throat which is as dry and scratchy as sandpaper and force myself to speak. “I was there with him.”
The silence that ensues is so loud that it’s screaming. I don’t want to look, but in the end, I chance a quick glance at Neve.
Her face is chalk white, her lovely eyes wide and glassy, and her mouth is slightly agape as her bottom lip trembles visibly. Her fingers, still in mine, are clenched so hard her knuckles are white. So are mine, so I guess I’m squeezing her hand just as hard. It takes a conscious effort to relax my grip.
Neve appears speechless, teetering on distraught, so I decide to just talk.
