Page 50 of The Billionaire's Promise

"I should've called Maxwell Sinclair. He could've gotten the police without the media, could've kept the whole thing quiet. If I'd called Maxwell, everything would've been different."

"Vance, you're not being reasonable. You were a child. I'm impressed you had the self-possession to think to call the police at all. You can't blame yourself. And I'm sorry to tell you, but that kind of crime inyourfamily? Even if you'd handled it perfectly, the media would've been all over you. You know that."

When Hugh and Olivia had died in an almost identical murder, they'd been adults and they'd been careful—so very careful—and it hadn't helped at all. Vance let out a sigh of resignation. "Maybe not. My mother was still warm when I touched her. If I had been a few minutes earlier, I could've saved them," he said.

A chill stabbed through my gut.

"Or you would've been killed, too," I said.

Vance rolled on his side to face me. "You don't think my father killed her and then killed himself? That's what the police report says."

"No," I said, meeting his eyes, their color almost black in the dark room. "My grandmother knew your parents well. She always said the investigation missed something, had to have, because there was no way your father would've ever hurt your mom. She remembered their wedding and said they were so in love that even after four kids and two busy careers, she'd see them having dinner at the club together and they looked like they were on a first date, your dad pulling out your mom's chair, your mom blushing and holding his hand. She said there was no way, that there must've been someone else there."

"Then why didn't they find anyone?" Vance asked.

"I don't know," I said. "My grandmother always said she thought the police were afraid to push too hard, that they were scared of what they'd find and they just wanted it to go away. But Vance, if she's right—and my grandmother is not the only person I've heard talk about this—you probably would've been killed too if you'd been home any earlier. Your parents loved you. They would not have wanted that. Would you? If it was the same situation, would you want Rosie to come in and try to save your life at risk to her own?"

"No. No, of course not," he said immediately. The words settled into the quiet room, and Vance's muscles relaxed.

"I wish I could take those memories away," I said. "I wish you hadn't seen that. And if I ever find out who’s sending those pictures . . ." I trailed off.

"You have to get in line for that," Vance said. "If we ever find out who’s behind the pictures . . . probably better if the Sinclairs find them first."

"I just don't understand why they're sending them in the first place," I said. "Is it about your family? Is someone just trying to make you miserable?"

Vance shook his head, his eyes tired and frustrated. "If that's their plan, it's fucking twisted. When I saw Jacob's picture, the way they'd colored in the tie, I thought it might be a clue. But none of us could figure out what it meant, and if somebody knows who killed my parents, why send us the pictures? Why not just tell the police? It doesn't make any goddamn sense."

"Was there anything weird about this picture?" I hadn't wanted to look closely enough to find out.

"Yeah," Vance said, "My father's cufflinks weren't his cufflinks. We're trying to figure out what it means. Aiden thought they looked familiar, but he couldn't place them. The whole thing is just fucked up, and I don't like the idea that someone is watching us closely enough to know that I'm living with you and felt safe enough to come to your house."

I hadn't even thought about that part of it. I'd been so worried about Vance that it hadn't occurred to me that a stranger who possibly meant us harm had been at the front door. I opened my mouth to ask Vance about it when he said,

"Evers is setting up all new security on the house. Please don't argue with me about it. Your grandmother barely has workable locks, the wiring for the old system is shot, and you never use it anyway. It's not safe. You're too isolated from your neighbors here."

"I'm right in the middle of Buckhead," I protested.

The second the words left my mouth, I realized how stupid they were. This was one of the safest neighborhoods in the country. And Vance had lost his parents and his aunt and uncle less than a mile from where we were sleeping.

A stranger had been at the front door earlier today, someone who possibly had a grudge against the Winters family. If Vance wanted to update the security, if it would help him sleep at night, I wasn't going to fight him.

"I'm sorry, "I said. "Whatever you want to do is fine. Just have Evers send me the bill."

Vance's finger pressed to my lips, stopping my words. "Shut it, Magnolia. I'm not sending you the fucking bill."

"Whatever you want, Vance," I said against his finger, just before I bit him. He yanked his finger back and sucked on it, giving me an exaggerated wounded look. "Do you have a lot of nightmares?" I asked carefully.

"More often in the last year," he said, his eyes avoiding mine, fixed on my mouth. Since he'd stopped drinking, he meant. I guessed that when he'd been drinking, there'd been no dreams.

"What do you do when you have a nightmare?" I asked.

"Usually, I go for a run or up on the roof to work out, sweat it out of my system."

"You already went for a run today," I said.

"Twice," he agreed, skimming his hand down my side and over my ass to hook behind my knee. He pulled my leg up over his hip. I was wearing a stretchy, spaghetti strap nightgown—more online shopping—but I hadn't worn any underwear to bed. Vance's fingers dipped between my legs, stroking me, lingering on my clit before sliding back up to pull the strap of my nightgown off my shoulder and down my arm.

"I don't want to go running again."