Page 187 of Keeping Kasey
Logan:Your days are numbered, liar.
Logan:You can’t stay away forever. When I finally get my hands on you, I will make you wish you were never born.
Several more, just like them, fill the first few weeks of my time on the run. I scroll down to one sent the day I gave away most of Logan’s cars.
Logan:Going after the car collection was a bad move, liar. You’re only giving me more reasonsto prolong your suffering when I do find you—and I will find you.
The next is dated one day later.
Logan:If you think I will let you go because of anything that happened between us, you’re wrong. I don’t care who you are. No one gets away with betraying my family.
Another day.
Logan:What was the point anyway? If you were always going to stab me in the back, why bother pretending? Was it to keep me distracted? It might’ve worked once, but never again. I’m going to make your life hell. You can keep running, liar, but I will catch you.
A few days pass before the next message.
Logan:You could’ve at least told me why. Was it about money? Power? I should’ve known anyone could buy you. You have no sense of loyalty, and why would you? You’re alone and always have been.
The words have a physical effect, making my stomach twist and my eyes close, as if I can delete the words from my brain.
But I can’t.
And I can’t stop myself from reading either.
The next message is dated the day before Logan burned down the motel.
Logan:I thought I hated Mason, but I didn’t. The second I learned of his betrayal, he was dead to me. He wasn’t my brother anymore. But you? I really hate you, liar. Because you’re not dead to me. You didn’t become a stranger just because I learned you’re a lying traitor. I hate that I wonder where you are. I hate that I can’t forget about you. I hate you.
Tears gather in my eyes, but they don’t slide down my cheeks until I read the last message, dated one day later.
Logan:I’m done. As long as you stay out of my way, I will let you go. You’re not worth the trouble. You are a memory I will relish losing as I marry someone who won’t stab me in the back. She is well-mannered, soft-spoken, and respectful. She was born and raised to be my wife. She is perfect for me in every way. She is everything that you are not. Thank you for showing me who you really were before I made the mistake of choosing you. Enjoy your freedom, liar. It is the last thing I will ever give you.
My eyes fall shut as tears stream down my face, silent and unrelenting.
I can’t help myself. It’s purely masochistic, but my curiosity is too strong. I need to know.
I open my identification program and searchLogan Consoli.
It’s pathetically easy to find the woman he’s talking about.
Isabella Romano.
The wealthy family lives in the center of Chicago with ties to the Consolis, and after only moments of searching, pictures of a stunning woman fill my screen.
Her skin is tanned to perfection, with dark hair that falls elegantly in thick, shiny waves down her back. Her dark eyes are round, and in every picture, they’re adorned with makeup that effortlessly enhances her natural beauty. She has full lips and a gently curved nose that gives her the perfect button shape.
But it’s not Isabella’s beauty that hits me like a battering ram to the heart.
It’s the photos of her and Logan, arm in arm, at a dozen events. Most of them are formal, with Logan in sharp suits and Isabella in breathtaking gowns, but a few are more casual outings.
In all of them, they’re the picture-perfect couple.
If I thought his remark was meant to hurt me, I know now that it wasn’t. There is no denying how natural they are together. The dark features, the ideal height difference, and even the way her soft smile takes the edge off his hard glare.
Sheisperfect for him.
One picture catches my eye—of Logan leading Isabella by the hand, both of them dressed to the nines at some fancy event. The knife in my chest slowly turns when I realize where I’ve seen that tuxedo before.
