Unsuitable

My eyes snag on his jacket, which is hanging on the back of the door. He wore that earlier when we went to the vet’s to get the medication for the horse.

I walk over to the jacket. I slip my hands in both pockets. My hand curls around a set of keys in the right pocket.

I pull them out. His car keys. I stare down at them in my hand. There’s his car key, a fob—which is for the garage, I think—a Range Rover key ring…and another key.

A Yale key.

Holy shit.

Blood starts to pump through my veins.

Oh my God. This is the key. I bet this is the key!

I rush over to the bookcase, keys in hand.

I open up the stack, revealing the door. I single out the Yale key, and with my hand shaking, I slot the key in the door. I turn and…

Click.

Shit. I’m in.

I’m actually in.

Leaving the key in the door, I grab the handle and turn it.

But I pause before opening.

Am I sure I want to do this? Am I sure I want to know what’s behind this door?

I’m not sure of anything anymore. But I do know that I need to know what he’s hiding.

On a deep breath, I push open the door.

A light flickers on, making me jump. It must be one of those sensor lights. My eyes adjust to the light, and I see I’m standing in the doorway of a closet-sized room.

And in this closet-sized room are…photographs.

Of me.

“What…the hell?” I whisper.

My heart starts to beat faster as I step further into the room.

There’s a photo of me. From the day I left prison. I’m standing outside the prison, a bag in hand.

Why does Kas have a photograph of me?

My eyes start moving over the other photos pinned to the wall.

Me and Cece hugging from the same day.

Me out running.

Me and Cece out together, the night of the club.

Me at the Matis Estate, talking to Cooper.

Me on the train.

One of me with Jesse when we went to the beach.

And…

Jesus Christ.

My hand reaches up to the photo.

It’s of me with Jason. But this isn’t from the other day. This is an old photograph—from when we were together, not long before I was arrested.

The picture was definitely taken from afar and without our knowledge.

Jason and I are in an embrace. I’m smiling up into his face, and he’s grinning down at me.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

I turn in the room, eyes scanning. Every wall is covered with something—photographs, news cuttings about my arrest, trial, and imprisonment.

Jesus, he even has my prison mug shot.

Stepping up close, I run my fingers over the picture.

I move over, and there’s a map with marked locations.

One is of my apartment.

What the hell?

I don’t understand. Why does Kas have these?

I move along, and my hip bumps into a table.

No, it’s a desk and—

“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest, as my heart climbs out of my throat, leaving me gasping.

On the desk is a gun. And lined up beside the gun are four knives in various sizes. Each one looks as deadly as the other.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Fingers on the edge of the desk, I sidle around it, staring down at the weapons, like they’re going to come alive and attack me.

Once I’m around the desk, I turn to the last wall. I see pictures of Haley.

I focus in on one of the pictures. It’s of Haley and Kas. He looks so much younger.

He looks happy.

Pain ruptures in my chest.

I step back, taking in the photos of Haley along with the news cuttings about her murder.

I don’t understand what all of this is. What it means.

Why does he have pictures of me and of Jason in here with pictures of Haley?

Standing in the center of the room, I turn slowly, trying to take it all in, piece it all together, and my eyes catch on a photo. I didn’t spot it before because my eyes were pinned on the weapons on the table.

But, now, I’m looking, and I’m looking hard.

Because there’s a picture of Damien Doyle.

And on either side of the picture of Damien are pictures of two men I don’t recognize.

I step closer to the photos, and my stomach empties.

The photos of the men I don’t recognize have a big red X marked over their faces.

Damien’s is the only photo that doesn’t have an X.

Why would—

Oh God.

Oh, holy fuck no.

Just like a blow to the head, it hits me.

A sick, hollow feeling starts to form in my gut.

Three men.

Haley. Kas.

Rape. Murder.

Red crosses mean…are they…dead?

Oh, fuck.

Damien’s alive.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

God. No.

I turn, more than ready to leave this room, and my heart practically falls out of my chest.

Kas is standing in the doorway.

His chest is bare, and he’s wearing the black pajama bottoms he went to bed in.

“Is there any room I can keep you out of?” He doesn’t smile.

And I nearly piss my pants.

His eyes run over the room, and he sighs. He folds his arms over his chest and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb.

His impenetrable eyes meet with mine. Then, he parts his lips and says calmly, “So, I guess you have questions.”

Thirty-Seven

Questions?

Do I have questions?

Of course I have fucking questions!