Page 26 of Haunted By the Storm
Heat floods my cheeks. So much for unobserved. "How did you know I was here?"
Now he turns, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Mirror," he says, nodding toward a reflective surface above the workbench. "Plus, you smell like flowers and coffee. Dead giveaway in a place that usually reeks of oil and testosterone."
I step fully into the garage, feeling awkwardly out of place among the machinery. "Digger said you wanted to talk to me? Something about Eric?"
His expression darkens at the name, all trace of amusement vanishing. "Yeah. We've got some information you should know." He wipes his hands on a rag and gestures to a couple of chairs in the corner of the garage. "Might want to sit down."
I follow him to the chairs, trying not to show how nervous his tone makes me. "What is it? Did you find him?"
"We know where he lives and where he works," Storm confirms, sitting across from me. "But more importantly, we think we know why he's suddenly interested in playing daddy after all these years."
"Why?"
"Money," Storm says bluntly. "He's been telling people you owe him. The story changes depending on who he's talking to, but the bottom line is he's looking for cash and he's desperate enough to try to use Emily as leverage to get it."
I absorb this information, turning it over in my mind. "Money? But I don't have any money. I mean, I have a decent job but I'm hardly rolling in it. My savings wouldn't even cover a month's rent in Manhattan."
"Exactly," Storm says. "Which means he's either delusional or lying. Either way, it makes him unpredictable."
"Do you think he owes someone else?" I ask, the pieces falling into place. "And he's trying to use me to pay his debts?"
Storm nods, looking impressed with my deduction. "That's our working theory. Cruz has been watching him and has reported him meeting with some shady characters at the bar where he works. We're still trying to figure out who he owes and how much."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the garage. "So what do we do?"
"For now, you and Emily stay here where it's safe. We’ll keep digging, find out exactly what kind of mess he's in. Once we know that, we can figure out how to permanently remove the threat."
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "What do you mean by permanently remove?"
His expression gives nothing away. "I mean make sure he understands that you and Emily are off-limits. Permanently."
I want to press further, to know exactly what that entails, but part of me doesn't want the details. Plausible deniability and all that.
"There's something else," Storm says after a moment. "Something I need to ask you, and I need you to be completely honest."
I straighten, bracing myself. "Okay."
"Is there any chance, any chance at all, that Eric could have a legal claim to Emily? Anything that would hold up in court?"
The question sends ice through my veins. "No," I say firmly. "Absolutely not. He's not on the birth certificate. He's never paid a cent in child support. He's never even met her. There's no documentation anywhere connecting him to her."
Relief flashes across Storm's face. "Good. That simplifies things."
"Why? Was that a concern?"
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "If he had any legal claim, we'd have to be more careful about how we handle this. But since he doesn't, we have more... options."
I don't want to think too hard about what those options might be. Despite everything Eric has done, the thought of violence against him makes me uneasy. Not out of any residual affection there was never any to begin with, but because violence only ever seems to lead to more violence.
"Storm," I say carefully, "I appreciate everything you're doing to help us, but I don't want anyone getting hurt or in trouble because of me. There must be a legal way to handle this."
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. "Sometimes legal doesn't cut it. Sometimes you need to send a message that can't be misinterpreted."
"And what message is that?"
"That there are consequences for threatening what's mine."
The possessive claim sends a shiver through me, half alarm, half something else entirely. "I'm not yours," I feel compelled to point out.
