Page 2 of Triple Power Play 3
Did his mother want him to find these? She must have. Why? Fake documents to run? Did she suspect their lives were in danger? Was she preparing to escape the house of horrors? To save Jax from Kyle’s grooming?
Unbeknownst to her, her son never returned. He was abandoned at a boarding school in Canada and became a professional hockey player at eighteen.
A close-up photo of a pretty blonde and a green-eyed boy falls from the last book. He appears to be about four, missing the scar in his brow. They’re at the beach, wearing identical smiles, his arms wrapped around her neck.
A shudder runs through me. It’s like seeing an altogether different person, his eyes bright and full of life.
I put everything back, my intuition urging me to keep the books and documents for Jax. They belong to him, his story to unfold if he wishes.
Every day, I drift farther from what’sright, no longer a mindless robot. It used to torment me not to follow orders. Now, I just want my heart to beat again, want the light to return to my own eyes.
One of my team members enters the kitchen. “Hey, you gotta check out the pool house.”
I nonchalantly slide the cookbooks back onto the shelf the way I found them. I’ll come back for them later.
Why would someone build a pool so far from their house? What fun is hanging out at the remote end of your property? No BBQ or grill—what’s the point?
The pool house resembles a modest one-bedroom cottage. It’s where Jackson attempted suicide about six months ago, and, judging by the dust and debris, nobody has been here since.
Scattered about are liquor bottles, pizza boxes, and drug paraphernalia. The bed is torn apart, clothes strewn across the floor, the bathroom mirror smashed.
By the looks of it, he spent his time getting high and playing video games.
One of the crime scene investigators, Shandra, dons gloves. “Should I bag and tag these pills?”
“Yeah, sure.” They won’t find anything connecting Jackson to Kyle’s death. If Jax were messing with fentanyl, he’d be dead. “Hand me a pair, will ya?”
She tosses me some gloves, and I squeeze into them, barely. I check the pockets of the jeans lying beside the bed, finding empty baggies and a wad of cash. On the nightstand: weed, cocaine, pills, a half-full bottle of vodka, and a Ducati key fob.
Only Jackson would leave behind a fucking Ducati.
Shandra drops a yellow evidence marker and snaps a photo. “Why wasn’t this place cleaned? Makes little sense compared to the main house.”
“My guess is, whoever killed Kyle wasn’t aware of Jackson’s hideout.”
She raises a brow. “You don’t think it was him?”
“No. He would’ve done it long before now.” I believe the words, but I also don’t. I pushed him too far with my suggestion to use Aurora as bait. She was willing to do it, and it drove a wedge between her and Ethan. Jax was facing not only danger to Aurora but the loss of his best friend.
I didn’t fully understand their dynamic then, but after spending time in New York, it’s clear Ethan is important to Jax and essential to keeping the three of them together.
If Jackson killed his father, it wasn’t solely for Aurora.
The rest of my search is dull—a baseball bat, surfboard, and wetsuit in the closet, a hoodie tossed on a chair. Half under the bed is a pair of sneakers; crouching, I note the size: fourteen.
Nothing remarkable until I catch a glint of light between the headboard and the nightstand. I glance over my shoulder. Shandra is at the bathroom vanity, tweezers in hand, examining potential evidence.
Reaching between the two pieces of furniture, my fingers connect with a cell phone. It has to be Jackson’s; it probably fell when he was fighting EMS.
I slide it into my front pocket to scrub before turning it over and stand to my full height. “I’m headed out to the van. You need anything?”
“No, I’m good. Just finishing up. What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Charlie’s choice, so Chinese.”
“Again?” she groans.
I force a chuckle and step out into the chilly night air. Lanterns cast deep shadows along the tree-lined trails and stone walkways. It reminds me of the parks and gardens I grew up with in the Carolinas, not a neighborhood in West LA.
