Page 155 of Tangled Like Us
Apparently, he paid some teenagers to distract the security guards on-duty, so the police are tracking down the kids for a better suspect description. Plus, any footage paparazzi may’ve inadvertently caught.
The intruder was in the townhouse for about ten minutes. Our cameras showed him running away. Right before security entered.
Thatcher switches a knob on his radio. “We need to talk about this house.” He looks at me with grave concern, then to Moffy.
Strangely enough, Farrow is besideThatcher. Radios and guns holstered on their waistbands, earpieces likely still humming with chatter.
Both twenty-eight-year-old men are facing Maximoff and me. Like we’re young and in need of guidance in this decision. I suppose this is a security issue and they are our bodyguards—but they’re more, too.
“We’re not moving out,” Maximoff declares in finality.
Farrow combs a hand through his platinum hair. “Before you take that off the fucking table, how about we talk this through?”
“Alright.” Moffy nods. “And so my brain isn’t all over the place, I need to know. Are you here as my bodyguard or my husband—futurehusband.” He rolls his neck back, glaring at the ceiling.
The air tenses with his slip. Mostly because Farrow isn’t joking back like he normally would. This really is a serious matter to our bodyguards.
“Both,” Farrow tells him. “But you need a bodyguard more right now to tell you you’re being stubborn.”
“Then I must be stubborn too,” I interject quickly. “Because I agree with Moffy. I don’t think we should move out.”
Thatcher’s jaw contracts. He’s only looking at me.
I explain fast to him, gripping my mug tighter. “The townhouse is our home. Weshouldn’trun in fear.”
Thatcher never drops his gaze. “It’s the most unsecure location, Jane.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not secure,” I note. “And I know that youboth”—my eyes ping between Thatcher and Farrow—“think we’ll be safer if we move, but I don’t believe we really will be.”
Maximoff nods strongly. “And we’ve been dealing with this shit for ages. It’s nothing new.”
“The Cobalt brothers don’t have drones smacking into their doors,” Farrow combats. “You know why? Because their front door isinsidea hallway.”
Maximoff crosses his arms over his green crew-neck. “So we move and some drones quit annoying us? But, man, that’s not going to stop the possibility of abreak-in.” He uncrosses his arms just to motion to the door. “Celebrity homes are getting broken into in fucking Malibu and Calabasas left and right and they live behind gates and security force fields. If a burglar wants in, he’s gonna get in. We can’t be afraid of it.”
“Burglar?” Farrow repeats, brows rising. “What did this fucker steal tonight, Maximoff? Tell me.”
Silence deadens the air, but none of us look away from each other.
I stand tall. Like my mom taught me. Chin raised. Shoulders back. Whoever says the truth aloud will make the truth more real.
“He stole nothing,” Thatcher says bluntly. “It’s looking more likely that whoever broke into this house wanted one of you to be home.”
The intruder wanted to put his hands on one of us. To touch us.
To hurt us. In some terrible way. A sickening feeling creeps down my body again, and my face twists in a cringe. But I look straight at Thatcher.
His strong, protective gaze is right on me. Such a source of comfort that I never want to leave.
I say softer, “How do we know that he’s not after you or Farrow? You’re both in the limelight as well, and Luna and Sulli live here too. They could be potential targets.” That possibility worries me.
Seeing them afraid always hurts more.
Thatcher looks deeply into me. “The active stalkers on our radar right now are surrounding you.”
Because of the Cinderella ad.
Farrow runs his thumb over his lip piercing. “And there’s one fucker out there who we know for certain wants to torture Maximoff.”
