by Emelia Blair
Elijah purses his lips, deep in thought.
“No.”
“Are you certain,” I ask, frustrated. “He seems to have a very intense past with Eve. She said something about him trying to hurt Mila.”
My father studies me. “And yet you sit here without going after the man? If he tried to hurt your daughter, you would have every right to hunt him down.”
I clench my fist. “If I went after him, Eve wouldn’t trust me ever again.” The cruel smile that plays on my lips has my father sighing in satisfaction. “I’m just waiting for the day she does tell me. All bets are off then.”
I am going to crush that man under my foot, till there is nothing left.
I saw marks on Eve’s body. Small scars that she couldn’t explain. Scars that I knew had been left there deliberately.
Oh, Thomas Richards has a lot to answer for.
“He’s not capable of something like this.” My father’s smooth voice breaks into my thoughts. “Besides, I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s not your man.”
Frustration licks at me, and I frown. “The police are not yielding any results. Even your sources fell short.”
My father doesn’t look insulted in the least. “These things take time. For now, we have two or three eyewitnesses placing a blonde woman at the scene.”
“But nobody saw her face, just her back,” I hiss. “She might as well be a ghost!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I am chided, and Elijah looks thoughtful. “I looked into your past for all the blonde women who have passed through your life.”
The sense of invasion of my privacy makes me knit my brows, and I say, sarcastically, “Try asking next time.”
My father just gives me an amused look and continues. “There is one woman that stood out. Sheila Masters. But apparently, she’s a difficult woman to get a hold of.”
I remember Sheila.
She was a stunning woman with golden locks that would fall to her waist, fair skin with wide blue eyes. She looked hauntingly beautiful in a white dress.
“I had an on-again-off-again thing with her,” I mutter.
“I’m aware,” Elijah’s gaze rests on me. “You two were pretty close.”
I choose not to reply to that.
Underneath her wide-eyed countenance and faerie-like looks, Sheila liked violence in bed and she enjoyed manipulation games a little too much for my taste.
“We weren’t very compatible.”
But now that Sheila’s name is mentioned, suspicion starts creeping up on me. “Her description matches the ones Ron and Lorraine gave.”
“And Eve’s neighbor from the floor below, the one who reported the fire. She said she saw a woman with golden hair and a white dress fleeing the scene; he didn’t get a glimpse of her face,” Elijah says, calmly. “It’s intriguing that there have been three witnesses and yet nobody managed to see the woman’s face.”
I consider what he is saying. “Sheila and I—we didn’t part on the best of terms. But she did make it clear that I was welcomed back into her bed if I changed my mind.”
My father arches a brow and says a simple, “Oh?”
“I can probably get in touch with her. She won’t say no to meeting up.” I say, slowly, ignoring him.
“Even after your delightful interview?”
I frown. “Caught that, did you?”
My father smiles, faintly. “Henrietta cut it out and framed it in my study. She enjoys scrapbooking about you.”
I feel uncomfortable at that, at the idea of my father and Henrietta being so intimate. “Yeah, well. It was okay.”
After a long silence, my father says suddenly, “I cherish her.”
I don’t have to ask who he is talking about. Feeling like a young boy again, I stick my hands in my pockets, slouching in my chair, and mutter, “You’d better.”
It is as I am about to leave when I ask, casually, “Mark Fallon. What do you know about him?”
Elijah stands in the hallway, his hands in his pockets as he studies me, a small smile lurking on his lips. “He owns a remarkable gallery. I have attended a few shows there.”
“Aside from that,” I bite out, knowing I am being toyed with.
My father watches me for a few moments before finally uttering, “He’s safe.”
My lips thin. “That’s not what I asked. Is he one of yours?”
My father raises a brow. “One of my what? You do say the oddest things at times, son.”
“You know what I mean.” I am trying not to snarl at him, but my father could try the patience of saints.
“I really don’t,” Elijah smiles at me like the Sphinx. “Good night now. Drive safe.”
And just like that, I am kicked out, the door closing behind me.
18
Eve
“Your decorator did a good job,” I murmur reluctantly, taking in the new carpet in the hallway of the studio, my eyes not missing new additions.
Agatha stands behind me. “Do you like it? After the police were done with it, the place was a mess.”
I feel awkward as I turn around to face her. “You really didn’t have to do any of this. Elijah was going to take care of it. Not that I don’t appreciate it.” I add the last part hastily.
“Elijah.” Agatha looks almost pained. “You’re friends with him.”
I hesitate at that word.
‘Friends’ isn’t the right word to describe the relationship that Elijah and I have. However, I don’t know Agatha well enough to divulge in a heart-to-heart with her. Now that I think about it, after finding out about Mila, I have somehow managed to toss away all my girlfriends, or the few that I had.
“I know him well enough,” I allow cautiously.
The woman whom Mila worships and who insisted on getting my dance studio fixed up before I walk into the mess the police left for me, seems uneasy at this moment.
“Zayn doesn’t talk about him. Even now. He doesn’t want to discuss him at all.”
“I know,” I say simply.
This time the look she aims my way is accusatory. “But he talks about him with you. And you know Elijah.”
I stare at her. “I don’t discuss Elijah with Zayn. I have a different relationship with him. He helped me out.”
The look of frustration on the blonde’s face makes me feel a little guilty.
I would be frustrated too if one of my closest friends was hiding a secret like this from me.
“Helped you how?”
I raise a brow, scoffing. “Are you trying to get answers out of me because Zayn refuses to tell you anything?”
“Is it working?” Agatha narrows her eyes at me.
I laugh then, unable to do anything but. Then, I sigh, making a decision in a heartbeat.
“Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee. And I’ll let you interrogate me.”
When Agatha beams, I add, “I’m not promising to tell you everything, though. I am bound to both these men and some things I’ll take to the grave.”
From the look on my face, Agatha must have realized that I am being serious.
The coffee shop is a fancy vegan one. The strong taste of the coffee that attributes to the oatmilk this café makes me sigh in bliss.
“I didn’t take you for a vegan,” Agatha muses, studying the large place with its wooden tables and layers of pink and white, and a large poster of a cartoon cow that has a cross on it and the caption, ‘Come at me, bro’.
“I’m not. The coffee here is just amazing. It’s a luxury I permit myself once a week. It’s not exactly cheap,” I say, dryly. As the server comes over to put a large éclair donut before me with a wink, I grin. “Thanks, Nick.”
“You didn’t order a donut,” Agatha glances at the server as he makes his way back to the counter.
I hide my smile behind my cup. “I give his kid sister free dance lessons. He can’t afford it, and she’s gifted.”
“Oh.” Agatha takes a sip of her coffee and blinks, surprised. “It is good.�
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I study her as she puts the cup down after a few sips. “All right. How’d you meet him?”
I deliberately pretend to misunderstand the question. “Well, you know how expensive law school is. I saw an advertisement for a bartender and then Zayn—”
“I meant Elijah,” Agatha scowl.
“Oh,” I shrug. “I was at the hospital for an appointment. I was expecting Mila at that point. And I bumped into Elijah, spilling his coffee all over him.”
Agatha blinks. “But you’re business partners with him; How do you go from spilling coffee on someone to becoming their business partner?”
I haven’t even discussed this with Zayn. Am I really going to tell Agatha about this?
She won’t let this go. I can see that she is determined to get to the bottom of who Elijah is and a part of it probably stems from her need to protect the man I fell in love with, despite my best efforts not to.
I don’t have to tell her everything.
I don’t have to tell her about the bruises on my arms that he saw or the fact that when Elijah walked into my house two weeks later, he never looked more terrifying than in that moment as he ordered me to go outside and wait in the car.
I don’t have to tell her that I covered my ears against the screams coming from inside the house.
“I was pregnant and emotional, and I started crying,” I say, glossing over some of the more gory details.
“You don’t seem to be the crying type.” Agatha gives me a suspicious look.
I cried. But not because I was pregnant.
My lips twist into a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I was pregnant. You know how it is.” I gesture towards the bump protruding from her stomach.
Her hand automatically goes to rest on the bump, and I continue, “He took me out for coffee. Said he hated making women cry.” I chuckle then. “He also insisted that I take juice instead.”
It is an odd detail to remember, but at that time, he was so gentle with me, so kind, that it was a memory I held on to; his quiet insistence that I get juice instead of coffee—somebody looking after me after such a long time.
Taking another sip of the coffee, I try to get my thoughts in order. “He offered to drop me home. And since I didn’t have a car, I agreed.”
And that was when he saw me being dragged into the house.
“That still doesn’t explain how you and Elijah became business partners,” Agatha’s voice breaks into my cluttered thoughts.
Impatient, isn’t she?
I play with the spoon on the small plate, not meeting her eyes. “I ran into him again at my next appointment. He was visiting his friend again. He offered to take me out for lunch, and I found it odd but he was just—he’s a persuasive man. And before I knew it, every time I had an appointment, we would have lunch together.”
Agatha leans back in her chair. “You didn’t find it odd that he was always there, so conveniently, every time you had an appointment.”
I hadn’t.
Not at the time.
Back then, I was desperate, and his gestures were like drinking cold water after wandering for days in the desert. I ignored all the warning bells ringing in my head.
I casually shrug my shoulders. “Maybe. But I got a free meal out of it, so I didn’t care.”
She could take my statement one of two ways: gold-digger, or starving. I find that I am not bothered. My reputation was already torn to shreds by the media.
However, to my surprise, her eyes soften, and she reaches out to touch my hand. “I’m sorry for whatever you had to go through back then.”
I hadn’t realized how hard her words would hit me and I bite my tongue to keep the sudden tears at bay.
Voice rough, I reach out with shaking hands to pick up my cup and swallow the scalding liquid, and mutter, “So am I.”
It takes me a while to regain my composure, and Agatha takes the time to use her phone and answer some texts.
I am grateful for the reprieve.
What I assumed would just be a light conversation is turning into an emotional rollercoaster, although we have been here just for ten minutes.
I sigh again.
I am doing a lot of that today.
“Well, long story short, I was looking for a new apartment, and Elijah said that he could help find a good neighborhood to raise a child and he just became sort of a friend.”
Like offering me a list of people he assured me were thoroughly vetted by him. And getting my inheritance from my family who was incensed when I approached them about…
I shake off the dark thoughts, carrying on the conversation. “And then, after Mila was born, I was looking for an investor for the dance studio and he offered. I didn’t know he was Zayn’s father.”
Agatha watches me, her tone flat as she says, “That’s a very neat story.”
“I’m not lying,” I reply, calmly.
She tucks her tongue in her cheek before leaning forward. “You’re not. But you’re definitely leaving things out.”
I smile slightly. “I told you I would.”
She glares at me. “You’re just like Zayn. Prying things out of you two is like pulling teeth.”
I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the ache in them from how Zayn positioned me last night over the sink and fucked me raw.
Asshole.
“Zayn doesn’t even know this much,” I offer as a peace-offering, and it works as Agatha almost looks gleeful.
I really do like her.
“We’re having a girls night next week. You missed the barbeque so you should come to this.”
I remember the women from the other night, the ones who showed up at a single phone-call from Zayn to show solidarity despite barely even knowing me.
I shift in my seat. “I don’t—I’m not good with friendships with women.”
Agatha smiles at me. “Well, suck it up, then. You’ll have to get used to us.”
I frown.
It doesn’t deter her as she cheerfully continues. “We’re a very close-knit group. We’re more of a family than friends. We’re nosy, interfering, and we like to show up unannounced at each others’ homes.”
“You’re really selling this,” I tell her and she grins.
“Zayn comes with a package deal—his family—which is us, whether he likes to admit it or not.
Having Agatha drop me back at the dance studio, I wave goodbye as I unlock the door.
I have to reorganize the books that still lay out in my office, call up customers, get the studio up and running. As I walk through the newly carpeted hall and look at the new rose gold painted walls, I muse that it is a better look than the tacky one I had before.
It is nearing noon, and I know Zayn will drop by for lunch.
Ever since the incident with the social worker, he started hovering. I don’t mind it, but I often find myself pushing back at him to give me some space.
As I walk towards my office, I glance at the security cameras: the obvious ones and the hidden ones. Their existence gives me some comfort.
Not something I want to analyze right now.
Stepping into the office, I freeze at the man who is standing there, his back to me.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair, I would know him anywhere.
Stepping back is instinct and fear grips me by the throat when my foot makes contact with the metallic bowl that lays on its side behind me, sending it careening into the shelf with a loud noise.
The man turns instantly, his gray eyes pinning me to the spot.
“Eve.”
My mouth moves, but no words come out. It is as if my voice stopped working.
When he takes a step towards me, I take two back, terrified.
All these years, the work I put into building myself up, piece by piece, all that effort put into learning how to defend myself, it was all for nothing, I realize dimly, as I hear something loud thumping nearby.
In my head, I made Thomas into a monster, this larg
e, horrifying creature, and here he is, looking so normal. You could pass him in the street, and it wouldn’t occur to you that this man would take a belt to a pregnant woman who was raised in the same house as him, that he would force himself on a heavily pregnant woman, enjoying humiliating her and hurting her.
My hand automatically goes to my stomach, the past and present crashing into each other, and suddenly I am back to that twenty-something year old who had just been kicked out of her parent’s home with no money and no means to survive.
Thomas takes another step towards me, and I can see his mouth moving, but I hear nothing past the ringing in my ears. I back away, stepping into the hallway, nearly tripping over the little Raggedy-Ann doll that Mila left in my office a few months ago.
Seeing that tattered doll grounds me, the bright red yarn that I attempted to glue back on, painstakingly, when Mila had chewed on it at night, reminding me that I have child to protect. That I have a man who loves me. That I have people who care about me.
It reminds me that I have roots now.
And I can’t let this man take any of that from me.
Anger gives me courage.
Adrenaline gives me the ability to hide my growing fear with harshness.
I reach down and pick the doll up, holding it tightly in my hand.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
My newfound strength seems to startle Thomas, and he blinks at me, his eyes glancing down at the doll I hold.
“How’s your daughter?” he asks smoothly, and I hear the Southern charm in his voice, the polite veneer that he hides behind.
“You sent a social worker my way,” I say in a low voice, proud when my voice remains steady. “Unstable? Really? You’re losing your touch, Thomas.”
His nostrils flare, and I see the familiar anger rise in his eyes. However, he doesn’t move from where he stands, his words a sneer. “After all the lies you spun about me to your parents, it was obvious even to them that you were delusional.”
My chest aches at the mention of my parents, whom this man manipulated seven ways from Sunday into believing him over me.
