Page 90 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

My fingers curl around the bed rail. “Planned how.”

“Not random,” he replies. “Not drunk idiots. Someone waited.”

White, hot rage explodes in the back of my eyes. “You think it’s Cindy.”

Nathan’s expression hardens. “Connected,” he says. “Cindy doesn’t do it herself.”

I lean closer, voice steady. “I’m going to find out who did this, Nathan.”

His eyes hold mine. “I didn’t want you pulled into it.”

A short laugh escapes me, sharp and humorless. “Too late,” I say. “I’m already in.”

Nathan’s hand lifts and catches my wrist, gentle pressure that steadies me. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

I stare at his hand on my skin, then lean down and kiss him carefully at the corner of his mouth. When I pull back, my voice comes out rough. “I’m sorry too, but enough with the apologies. If it’s clear we can’t escape this, then we finish this.”

Nathan’s gaze holds mine, then he nods once. I stay with him as long as he’s able to stay awake. Ivy joins us, eyes bright and lips stained from what looks to be a pack of candy. I groan inwardly and tell myself I’ll allow it. Ivy and Nathan hold hands for the longest time, then he dozes off.

Later, Daniel helps us settle into an Airbnb close enough that I can be back at Beacon Harbor in minutes. Ivy’s adrenaline burns out in the car, and by the time we get inside she’s yawning so hard her eyes water.

I get her into bed and tuck her in, then I sit beside her for a minute and watch her breathe. When she finally drifts off, I step into the living area and call Maya.

She answers on the first ring, breathless and delighted. “Athena,” she says. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” I reply, and my voice cracks. “I need you.”

Maya doesn’t waste time. “Where?” she asks, already moving.

When she arrives, she brings her fierce, relieved expression she gets when she decides a crisis is hers too. She hugs me hard, then she nods toward Ivy’s room. “Go,” she says. “I’ve got her.”

I grab my phone, my wallet, and a jacket, then I head out.

I want street footage, and I want it with logic that won’t get laughed out of a lobby. Beacon Harbor has already notified police, and Daniel already told me there’s a case. I call Daniel from the sidewalk and keep my voice tight.

“I need the report number,” I say. “And the detective’s name.”

Daniel doesn’t ask questions. He gives me both and let’s me know that the detective is a close friend, which I can use in my favor. I drive a rental to the street where Nathan was found, then I park and walk, scanning storefronts and entrances. There’s a building with a security desk behind glass, and I walk in like I belong there.

The receptionist looks up, cautious. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here as a witness,” I say, and I keep my tone steady. I pull up the case number on my phone and show it to her. “Boston PD is investigating an assault outside your building. I’m the victim’s family, and the detective asked for identification if you have camera coverage.”

I don’t say please like I’m begging. I say it like a person who knows procedure.

The receptionist makes a call. A manager comes down a few minutes later, tired eyes, guarded posture. “We don’t hand out footage,” she says immediately.

“I’m not asking you to,” I reply. “I’m asking to view it with you present, and I’m willing to give a statement to the detective after I identify what I can.”

The manager studies my face, then glances at the case number again. “You have a detective contact?”

“I do,” I reply, and I pull up the email the detective sent Daniel confirming the request for witness identification, then I angle the screen toward her without handing it over.

The manager nods once, practical. “Come on back.”

She leads me into a small office with a monitor, then she pulls up exterior footage and scrolls to the time window. We scrub forward, then we find movement at the edge of frame, and my pulse kicks hard.

She pauses and zooms, then plays it slower.