Page 104 of Ardently Yours

The idea of what some monster could have done to Rochelle turns my stomach, but it’s entirely plausible.

“I’m going after her,” Reese says abruptly. “I can keep an eye on Charlotte to make sure the press don’t become a problem, and I’ll check on the friend.”

I lift a hand, and he shakes his head.

"I know,” he says. “You told her you’d give her privacy.Ididn’t. I’m going as myself. Fire me, if you have to.”

“I’m not firing you,” I say.

“I’ll stay under the radar, and I won’t intrude unless they need me. They’ll never know I was there.”

I eye him speculatively. “This isn’t like you. You always guard me and send someone else to investigate.”

His jaw tightens. “Rochelle’s a sweet girl. If someone did something to her, I’m going to deal with him.”

Reese has only met Rochelle once, at Charlotte’s graduation, when she recognized me in the crowd and introduced herself.

I frown. “Only if that’s what she wants. The legal process could re-victimize her.”

The idea of letting something like that go ignites bone-deep fury inside me, but our legal system is broken when it comes to cases like this. It has to be her decision.

Reese shakes his head. “I’lldealwith him, Arden. No courts. Just me. And you aren’t doing a thing to stop me.”

I used to think being a rule follower gave me the moral high ground. I was “such a good person.”

Charlotte said those words to me the day we met. She wasn’t interested in being the vehicle I used to make myself feel better about who I was. That’s what I did when I let so many of my people die in the Vinucci War because I insisted we never sink to their level. It was their sacrifice, not mine. My boys and parents were safe behind walls and teams of security while I clung to a system that evil men worked around for their own advantage.

When the kids were gone last night, I recognized the difference. I was never noble. I was privileged enough to have never been forced to choose.

“Will you save Aunt ‘Chelle from the bad man in the basement?” Bronnie asks Reese.

Reese and I both freeze before I crane my head to look down into her face.

“What bad man?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I dunno. He’s scary. I’m not allowed to go down there in case he gets me.”

My arms tighten around her little body. “Where, baby?”

“The theater. There’s a bad spiwit in the basement.”

I relax and ease my hold. Superstition. “Don’t be scared. Those are silly ghost stories people like to tell because they think they’re funny.”

“It’s not a good joke if it makes Mommy and Aunt ‘Chelle cry,” Bronnie says.

Bronnie and the boysare in New York with two trusted nannies and a team of guards. I flew into a private airport in Clearfield County, then made the hour-long drive into Blackwater incognito. I’ve been waiting for Reese’s call for longer than I care to think about. He either didn’t have coverage where he was, or he turned his phone off.

From where I stand at the window in the library of my great aunt’s estate, I can make out a light in the cottage at the edge of the woods. Frowning, I glance at the clock. Nearly one in the morning.

My cellphone rings, and I lift it to my ear. “Tell me Charlotte is safe and sound at Rochelle’s house.”

“Ah. No,” Reese says. “Are you sitting? I think you should sit.”

“Say it,” I bite out.

Reese speaks. The sounds travel through the airwaves and strike my eardrums.

I once saw footage of an aircraft carrier dropping anchor. The chains were as thick as a man’s calf, spinning wildly across the deck. It was deafening. Violent. Unstoppable. Then came shocking stillness when it reached the end and. Just. Stopped.

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