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I wipe my face and tamp down my overwhelming need to get in a car, drive into town, and hunt down that man like it’s opening day in the Hunger Games.
Then, I try zooming in on the blurry image. Seriously, did Striker take this photo from space?
My pulse pounds out of my chest, a needle of doubt prodding at my gut. Douchebag Jimmy is the one who owes my uncle a hundred grand. His disappearance is the entire reason why Kennedy’s in debt in the first place.
What’s Uncle Andre up to?
Could he be up to something at all? I mean, Kennedy and I met by chance.
I scrutinize the image once more. Those brooding, shadowed eyes, the lean figure, that exaggerated mustache. If I’m right, and I’m damn near certain I am, then Kennedy’s off the hook.
I start to speak, ready to spill the beans to Kennedy. Uncle Andre’s been pulling the wool over her eyes—and mine—all this time. Which means I don’t have to settle her debt after all.
But what if I’m wrong?
What if this is just my shattered, desperate mind grasping at the faintest glimmer of hope, the one elusive miracle that might release Kennedy from Uncle Andre’s ironclad grasp.
But, then what?
If she has no debt, there’s no reason for her to stay.
If she believes she’s free, I know exactly what she’ll do. She’ll run.
And my Bella can’t run.
I’m not done with her yet.
I slide my phone into my pocket, my thoughts spinning in every direction until they land on what I must do next. When I lift my gaze, the silence in the room is suffocating. Too quiet.
It’s then that the control freak in me goes ballistic. Kennedy is gone.
In three quick strides, I cross the room and rush down the hall. The soft rustling from behind the bedroom door tells me she’s inside. But when my hand grips the handle, it’s locked.
My fist slams against the door. “Let. Me. In,” I demand.
“No!” Her refusal is a bonfire of raw heat and defiance. My cock instantly responds.
“She deserves the truth,” the Scottish voice urges.
“The truth?” I scoff bitterly to no one. “No. What Bella deserves is to be punished.”
“You said you were giving her back to Andre,” the voice warns.
I did?
I mentally replay the conversation and shake my head in disgust. Goddamnit, he’s right. I roll my eyes. The son of a bitch is always right.
Exhaling deeply, I straighten my cuff and knock once more, my voice firm yet controlled. “Open the door, Kennedy.”
“The only way you’re getting through that door is if you break it down,” comes her defiant response.
What?
All the instincts I’ve kept suppressed suddenly surge to the surface, full force.
Stepping back, I gather all my pent-up frustration into one forceful kick.
With a resounding crash, the door flies open, and I stride inside.
