Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
I laugh to myself, sipping my coffee. “I know it wasn’t her,” I say. “One woman I fucking chased so I could be sure of it.”
“But you needed to check?”
“It would settle me to know where she is, yes.”
“Still locked up, I expect. But we’ll find out for sure.”
I nod, smiling my thanks. No judgments. John knows I’ve been straddling stable and unhinged for a while now. Like . . . since I met Ava. “The dealership said my car’s at The Manor.”
He snorts, and we both sit, silent for a while, until John breaks it. “Are you going to sort this shit out?”
“Which shit?” I ask on a smile.
“A car can be replaced,” he says, as serious as John can be. Which is deadly serious. “A human can’t.”
I flinch, swallowing, staring at the concrete beneath my boots. So true. Ava doesn’t know my truths . . . but does she really loathe the idea of being my child’s mother so much that she’d destroy it? At least that explains why she was so distraught when she finally confessed she was pregnant. Guilt. She hadn’t wanted me to know. And yes, I see the irony—she hid something from me. But it hurts. I just didn’t see that coming. Not from Ava. “I feel let down, John,” I admit, whether I have the right to feel that way or not. It’s how I feel, and I can’t help it.
“If she knew about Rosie, maybe things would have been different.”
Maybe. Or maybe she would have run. Or, worse, gone through with it. I look at John, smiling through my tight lips. “Jake said the same thing this morning.”
I expect him to whip out a straitjacket and bundle me into the back of his motor. But instead, surprising me, he chuckles. Like it’s funny that I’m having merry old chitchats with my dead brother. I won’t mention my daughter. Even I know that’s pushing the boundaries of acceptable levels of crazy.
“You need to get in touch with the police,” John says. “Sounds like the tracker’s been deactivated.”
“What about the CCTV?”
“I haven’t checked yet. I jumped straight in my car when I heard yours roaring down the driveway. We know the camera by the garage is down, and your car was by the garage.”
“But one of the other external cameras might shine some light.”
He nods, sipping his coffee, quietly pensive. He’s wondering too. Who would steal my car, because this sounds like more than a planned theft. It sounds like a vendetta. “I’ve got Cook looking into Van Der Haus.”
“Thought you would,” he replies, easy as that.
At the same time, both of our mobiles ring. Neither of us look particularly thrilled. I leave John to take his call while I connect mine, wandering away from him and my bike. “Yes?” I say in answer, sounding harder than I intended. Jake and John are right. Ava doesn’t have any context. And bottom line, I trapped her. I realize she acted out of spite and anger. I realize she was trying to get some control back in her life. Still, it’s a really fucking hard pill to swallow.
I expect an apology. A plea for understanding. I expect her to ask if we can talk, sort this out. I get none of that. “Nice drive?” she asks, her tone curt.
She’s pissed with me? “What?”
“Are you having a nice drive?”
“Ava, what the fuck are you talking about?” I snap, irritation rising. “And when I send John to fetch you, get in his fucking car.”
“I’m talking about you following me,” she says, impatient.
“What?” Following her? Like a complete idiot, I circle on the spot, as if to remind myself I’m at Lusso and not following Ava. “Ava, I haven’t got time for fucking riddles.”
“I’m not talking in riddles, Jesse. Why the hell are you following me?”
“I’m not following you, Ava.” I look to the heavens and take more caffeine.
“So I suppose there are hundreds of Aston Martins driving around London, and one just happens to be following me.”
My coffee cup halts at my mouth, a rush of cold sweeping through my body. “You’re driving?”
“Yes. I’m driving around in bloody circles, and you’re following me. You’d make a shit detective.”
“My car’s following you?” I ask on a murmur, looking around the car park blankly, my mind struggling to absorb the information being given and what that could mean.
“Yes,” she yells, angry.
“Ava, baby, I’m not driving my car,” I say quietly. “I’m at Lusso.”
She’s silent for a few worrying moments. “But it’s your car.”
Realization slams into me with such force, I drop my coffee. My stolen car is following my wife? “Fuck!” I kick the cup away and stalk to my bike, my stomach dropping over and over, my throat clogged with apprehension. “John,” I yell. The big guy looks over his shoulder, his phone still at his ear. His glasses are pulled off his face the second he registers my disposition.