Page 137 of Goldsin

Maybe he’s still mad. But it’s not like I personally stabbed his mother.

He warned me what would happen if she died, but what happens now that she didn’t?

I grab another cookie from the jar and bite down aggressively, my feet bouncing impatiently as I eat all my frustration away.

I’m on my last bite when I hear the metallic sound of keys and then the thud of the front door closing. Valentine’s looming figure appears next, and he stops to stare at me, clearly not expecting to find me here.

Raising my brow, I watch him as my fingers search for the next cookie to taste.

Without voicing a word, he opens a kitchen cabinet and pours himself a glass of rum. A golden droplet slides down the side of the short glass.

“Needed something stronger than coffee today?” I tease, though concern laces my voice.

Exhaling a long breath, he hangs his head. Warm light from the living room paints the deep lines on his face. His tiredness is evident in the dullness of his skin.

“Long day,” he says faintly before straightening his posture and taking a sip. “I don’t think even coffee would take the edge off today.” He tilts the glass in his hand, twirling the liquid inside of it.

Taking another cookie, I bite into it.

Valentine looks more than just exhausted—he looks beaten down. His usual strong posture now sags with whatever weight he’s holding alone.

“How many of those have you eaten already?”

“Excuse me?” I say between a mouthful of cookie.

He eyes the half-eaten chocolate chip cookie in my hand and looks back at me, arching his brow.

“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to ask those kinds of questions to a woman?”

Mumbling something under his breath, he takes a sip of his drink before making a show of rolling his eyes.

My mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile curving my lips.

But just like that, it disappears. My chest tightens, twisting as I remember Julian.

“Is Julian okay?”

“Considering his mother nearly died,”—he takes another sip, tasting the liquid without even a hiss—“he’s holding up as well as anyone could.”

“And a dead father.” The words flow out of me.

“Right, and a dead father.” Valentine sighs, rubbing his temples.

“Maybe I should go see him.”

Or maybe he should have called, the intrusive voice says.

Valentine nods. “Couldn’t hurt,” he says before downing the rest of his rum. “He wasn’t even at the funeral today.”

My heart drops.

“What? There was a funeral today?” Hurt washes over me.No one told me.

Why?

Cursing under his breath, he sets the glass down. “Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been so busy with everything, keeping the press and the police at bay. I thought someone else would have told you.”

“Great,” I mumble, picking at the crumbs on my sweatpants.

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