Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
She looks at me helplessly. I pull her into my side. It’s all I can do.
“Apparently, Freddy was at your house milling around,” Ford tells her. “And Burt came out on his porch and confronted him.”
“Oh, no,” she says, her shoulders falling.
“Burt had already called nine-one-one before he went outside, so the police were already on their way. In retrospect, that might have saved his life.”
Dahlia’s hand goes over her mouth. “I can’t … Is Burt okay?”
“He’ll live. Lacerations to the face and hands. A broken rib. Two black eyes. The police picked Freddy up a street over and charged him with resisting arrest, assault, and possession of drugs. Other charges are pending.”
“Is Freddy in jail?” I ask.
“He bonded out this morning.”
Dahlia’s eyes squeeze closed, and I think she whispers a prayer. I take the phone from her. She gives it up without a fight.
“This is my fault,” she says.
“This is not your fault.” I lift her chin so she has to look at me. “I mean it. Not your fault.”
Her eyes are cloudy with tears, and I hate it. Even more, I hate the motherfucker that’s doing this to her—and that hurt a poor old man.
“So Freddy is losing his shit,” I say. “Are we thinking he’s responsible for all of this?”
Ford takes a breath. “Actually, no. I have a bit more news on that front.”
Dark clouds roll across the sky as thunder rolls in the distance.
“We’ve been able to trace the IP address from the email you received with the pictures,” Ford says. “We thought there would be a VPN on it to block the sender’s location, but there wasn’t.”
Dahlia looks at me warily. “Who sent it?”
“It came from your father’s house.”
Fucking hell. I run a hand over the top of my head in frustration.
“What?” she asks, struggling to accept this information. “Are you sure?”
“We’re sure. Can you tell us who frequents his house? Who would be there using their internet connection?”
She shakes her head as if trying to rattle herself awake. “Um, I don’t know, really. I’ve only been there a few times. My father, obviously. Alexis. They have staff, but I don’t know who they are or how many.”
I grab her hand and hold it tightly.
“We did a little digging and Alexis was in New Orleans the day you received the email. Unless she scheduled it previously, she wasn’t home to hit send.”
Dahlia takes my phone again, pacing a small circle.
I wish we were at the house so we could sit. I never should’ve brought her here.
“So what are you thinking?” I ask Ford.
“Is Alexis into photography?” he asks. “Does she have a lot of time on her hands to follow you around?”
“I have no idea if she’s into photography or not,” Dahlia says. “I assume she has more time than usual, considering my father is in his office or court these days. But I don’t really know.”
Ford clears his throat. “What about your father?”
She stops in her tracks. “He has no time to do it. And why? Why would he threaten to kill me? He’s the one who initiated our relationship. If he didn’t want me around, he could’ve stayed in the shadows forever.”
“Maybe he thinks that shit is going to hit the fan with his trial, and he wanted you scared enough that you’d leave,” Ford suggests.
“Couldn’t he have just asked?” Dahlia laughs in disbelief. “It would’ve been a lot easier than to go through all this trouble, don’t you think?”
Anger flashes in her eyes. It’s the look of a woman who’s not being heard.
If her gut tells her it’s not her dad … I’ll run with that.
I’ll make sure she’s heard.
“I think we might be getting fucked up,” I say.
“About what?” Ford asks.
“We’re tangling two things together that may not be associated.”
“What do you mean?”
Dahlia stops moving and watches me.
“She got an email that threatened her, right?” I ask. “Fine. Someone sent that. We’re focusing on her father only because of his reputation and because he’s in a court battle right now with some pretty serious charges.”
“Correct,” Ford says.
I hold Dahlia’s gaze. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe the two aren’t as connected as you think.”
A slow smile slips across her face.
“Occam’s Razor,” Ford says. “The simplest solution is the common denominator. Joseph Dallo.”
“There are exceptions to every rule.” I grin back at her. “Look, you know I respect you and will not tell you how to do your job. But I do ask, respectfully, that you look beyond Joseph Dallo. Dahlia knows him better than anyone and feels he’s not involved. I think we should put stock in that.”
“You know I respect the hell out of you, Troy. But I think, respectfully, that the man involved with the Magne has the highest probability of being guilty.”
“That hasn’t been proven.”
Dahlia wraps her arms around my waist. I lean my cheek against her head.