Page 111 of Mess With Me

“Tell me.”

“The lock was intact,” Ford said. “It all looked good on the surface, but I got a bad feeling. Plus I saw the marks.”

Evidence that the lock had been tampered with.

I paced the grease-stained concrete floor while Ford explained how the drawers in the dresser were opened.

“Some of her underwear was scattered on top.”

I balled my fists so tight my knuckles cracked.

“Seemed weird that only that was fucked with,” Ford continued.

“What else?” I practically snarled.

“The doorman didn’t remember anyone strange going up, but when I got our tech guys to get into the camera feed just now, I saw what went down.”

I tell him not to leave out a single fucking detail.

“It was them. That big-ass ugly fucker was posing as a delivery guy.”

The guy from the restaurant.

“Started freaking out about a box. Pretty good acting, honestly. I’d have bought it if I hadn’t seen photos of the guy driving a van full of underage girls over the Ohio turnpike last year.”

I starting seeing spots. “Keep going.”

“The distraction was all it took.” While the doorman’s back was turned, Ford said, Creelman himself had slipped inside.

My stomach felt like it had been turned inside out. But it paled in intensity compared to the rage coursing through my veins.

“So yeah, you were right to do what you needed to, Griff.”

He meant marrying Sasha. He’d used fake credentials generated by McCrae to get into her building, McCrae technical support to make a key to her unit, and the McCrae data team to hack into the building’s security cameras. Access to all of those company resources was only possible because of Sasha falling under Lionel’s Family Protection Program.

“Seems like a good idea to lay low up there a while longer,” Ford said.

I agreed. But it took a long time to fall asleep.

Now, with a full night’s sleep behind me—well, five hours, but good enough—and Sasha safe beside me, I feel less like I want to hunt Creelman down and more like it’s a good fucking thing we’re sequestered up here in Quince Valley.

I know the feeling won’t last, but while it’s here, I force myself to relax. To focus on being here, living a normal, happy life of domesticity with my wife.

Fake wife, but fuck if we’re acting like that right now. I can’t stop thinking about what Sasha said that night I came back from the city. How caring about someone doesn’t have any bearing on how well you cantakecare of someone. Logically, I know that. But I can’t let myself feel everything, can I?

I shove these thoughts aside for now, reminding myself about that relaxing I was trying to do.

“Chester had some tools and wood out on the porch,” Sasha’s saying, “but it all looked like it’d been there a while. There’s a tarp over some of the wood that has puddles and moss growing on it.”

Guilt runs through me. “I should have pushed back when he said no to me fixing it.”

“You already fixed his roof for him.”

I grimace. “Yeah, but I put the hole through it.” I’d laid plywood down for Chester after I busted his porch so he could still cross over it to get to his chickens until I could come back to fix it, but Chester put up a huge stink. He insisted he’d do the repairs himself. Didn’t want me messing around on his porch.

I didn’t push it at the time, mostly because I’d just finished doing his roof. It had been a painful experience. It was half doing the job, which would have been fine. But the other half was Chester control. He kept trying to come up the ladder to help me, no matter how many times I told him I was good and that I needed him to stay on the ground. He’s not steady on his feet, and I didn’t want to spend my time up there worrying he was going to fall off the roof.

Sasha sighs. “Must be so hard being self-sufficient your whole life and suddenly not being able to do things on your own.”

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