Page 109 of The Bad Wedding Date

“No,” she said far too calmly. “I’ve never seen this picture before in my life.”

“Shit,” I hissed.

“There’s something else, Fraser.”

“What?”

“Whoever left the photo here… they left a knife next to it, too.”

With that, the red mist of rage rolled in, and the way my heart threatened to burst into flames with a feeling I couldn’t control made me realise that sometimes it didn’t even take a day for things to change. Sometimes it only took a second, and that was it.

“Stay where you are. Do not move. You fucking hear me?”

“W-what should I—?”

“You don’t answer the door to anyone until Wade gets there.”

“I’ve never met Wade. How will I know it’s him?”

“You’ll know. He’ll be there in twenty minutes. Can you stay safe until then?”

“I’ll… try,” she pushed out.

“Do you trust me, Charlotte?”

“I do.”

“Then tell me you can stay safe because you know that I’ve got you.”

I thought I heard her swallow before she said, “I’ll be safe because I know you’ve got me.”

“Good girl.”

Another second passed, another second changing everything.

Once I let her words sink in, I did everything within my power to make sure no one, not a single soul on this earth, touched the woman I’d become obsessed with. If they did, there wasn’t a name in London I wouldn’t destroy to find whoever was responsible so I could kill them with my own bare hands.

37

Charlotte

When I opened the door to see Wade standing there, wearing all black, and with a look of pure professionalism on his face, I exhaled in relief. He could hardly be the poster boy for warmth and friendliness, but there was a sturdiness in his gaze. A feeling of safety in his presence.

He took a thorough look around the apartment, even sinking down to wipe his finger over a small dusty footprint by my bedroom door. Whatever Wade’s job was, he took it seriously, and that was evident in the way he handled me and my obvious panic as I stared at him, feeling ashen and out of my depth with fear.

“It could be anyone,” I said quietly while Wade picked up the knife and broken picture frame. Settling the pieces of glass in the bin, he swirled the knife around in his hand like he’d done it a thousand times before, depositing it in the waistband of his trousers before he picked the picture up to study it.

His frown was immediate, and his eyes came up to meet mine across the room, questioning.

I swallowed, not knowing what to say.

“Did you tell Fraser about the picture?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him that he was in it, too?”

Inhaling quickly, I shook my head, not knowing how else to answer.

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