Page 110 of From West, With Regret

“West,” London croaks behind me. I fall to the floor again, holding her head as she tries to sit up. Her eyes roll as she tries to open them. She sits up, curling in as she starts coughing, her hand flying to her neck.

“I’m here, London,” I soothe.

She nods, then looks up at me with bloodshot eyes.

“See?” Heath releases a cynical laugh. “She’s fine.”

“How?” London asks, looking up at Heath. “How are you here?”

“Oh.” Heath swipes the open bottle of whiskey sitting on one of the shelves. It’s practically empty, with less than a quarter of it left. “My brother here hired some shitty security, that’s for sure.” He looks at me. “One of your guys took a cigarette break down the alley, so I strolled in through the back door. I came up here hoping to find my wife, since this was her workspace before you let her move into your place. Then I found these.” He picks up a handful of papers and tosses them to me, followed by him guzzling down the remaining bit of liquor left in the bottle he stole.

My Big Ben charm. Dirt-covered hands.Myhands.

“Seems she left them behind when you built her an entire studio at your place,” he mocks. “I guess she’s an easier fuck when she stays at your apartment instead of this shithole.”

I’m on my feet and crossing the room before I can take my next breath. I close in on Heath, pushing him back against the shelf, pressing my forearm to his chest, hoping it’ll keep him from going anywhere near London.

“You have ten seconds to explain how the fuck you are alive before I?—”

“Before you, what?” Heath raises his chin defiantly. “Before you kill me? Like you threatened everyone else who harms your precious London.”

He’s challenging me, daring me to kill him. Eyes the exact replicas of Glenna’s stare up at me, narrowed and menacing. Everything and everyone is a game to Heath.

“How do you know all of this?” I ask him, ignoring the twist of sickness in my stomach. I don’t know how the fuck my brother is still alive, but I know whatever answer he’s about to give won’t be a good or reasonable one.

The corner of Heath’s mouth tilts into a sinister smirk. He chuckles despite the hold I have on him.

“I had a plan,” he says, his eyes shifting to London. I don’t take a chance by taking my attention off him for even a second.

“A plan?”

“I had to.” His evil eyes shift back to mine. “I had to fake my death.”

“Are you serious?” I jerk my arm against him again. I knew his answer would be fucking stupid. It makes my blood boil.

“Yes. Ihadto.”

Silence, then…

“The helicopter pilot,” London croaks behind me.

“Unfortunate, really. Nice man.” Heath scrunches his nose, shrugging off his pilot’s death as insignificant. “But I had to do what I had to do.”

“You murdered him,” she adds.

Heath brushes her comment off again, the alcohol settling deep in his bones. That, or the man no longer has any fucking feelings whatsoever.

“Why?” London asks, her voice sounding stronger now. Idon’t know whether she’s had a moment to catch her breath, but she sounds closer to me than before.

“What possible reason could have for faking your own death, Heath?” I seethe. “Who fucking does that?”

“You have no right to judge me. Not when you’ve been fucking my wife behind my back, but I should have known.”

“What? That I would betray you?” White-hot anger causes my fingers to coil. My muscles strain, holding back the inherent need to beat the shit out of him.

“It was only supposed to be for a short while,” he starts to explain. “Just long enough to convince Rhys O’Connell that I was gone. Then I was going to come back.”

“Who the hell is Rhys O’Connell?” London asks.

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