Page 2 of Holden

I uncross my legs and tuck my hands under my bare thighs. Sweat creases the back of my knees, making my skin stick to the leather chair. A soft crackle whispers through the awkward silence as I change position.

“You’ve obviously read the many articles that were written about the incident,” Holden says coolly. “I’m not sure I can provide any additional insight at this stage.”

The beat of silence between us stretches while I gather my nerves. I inhale, blow out a slow, deep breath. “I wondered if there might be some things about that day you remember now, things that you may have blocked out at the time?”

Holden’s lip curls into a slight sneer.

I fumble to backtrack. “I just mean, sometimes, the victims of such crimes…”

The high-pitched ring of his office phone cuts off the rest of my painfully awkward sentence. He holds up a finger and answers with a curt greeting. I cringe, knowing I’m dangerously close to setting off his infamous temper.

My eyes sweep across the office, noting the commendations on the wall, the collection of photographs depicting well-noted business acquisitions and monumental trades on the New York stock exchange. Impressive. In my research, I’ve learned that victims respond to tragedy in one of two ways—they allow it to define them, or they use it to define themselves.

Holden Quinn certainly belongs to the latter group.

Daylight Holdings is the most successful hedge fund firm in the state, one of the most well known in the world. The partners—all three survivors of my father’s senseless killing spree—built the company from nothing but the sheer determination to rise from the ashes of a catastrophe that shook the entire country. Security at schools tightened, teachers became stricter, debates about gun laws heated up across the nation.

“Just make a decision, Mason,” Holden says into the phone. “I’m in the middle of something and don’t have time to screw around.” He hangs up the phone and clears his throat. “Continue,” he says to me.

Tension radiates from him, creating a claustrophobic thickness to the air that makes my skin prickle. The hair at the back of my neck stands at alert. “Is everything okay?”

His dark eyes narrow into thin slits. “That’s none of your concern, Miss Faber.”

“Chelsea,” I say again. The way he says my last name only jacks up my paranoia. I haven’t even stuttered out a full question, and he’s already suspicious. It’s like he has laser vision, and it’s trained on my lying soul.

Holden clucks his tongue softly. “Remind me again. You’re a student of…?”

I willingly take the prompt. “Sociology and criminal justice.” That much is true, at least. “I’m writing my dissertation on mass murders and the larger social implications of such horrific crimes.”

Holden’s eyebrow lifts. “Dark subject matter.”

I take a deep breath and keep going. “I’ve been interviewing victims…”

His hand tenses around his coffee cup with enough force to turn his knuckles white. “And you chose this incident after ten years because of your connection to Mrs. Kratky?”

My chest tightens. “It happened in my home town.”

Truth, but not even close to the real truth…

Mom and I have managed to keep our identities out of the press, but neither of us has forgotten who we are, and what we’re running from. Maybe we could shake the hatred thrown at us by former friends and family, but the shame and despair still clings to me, like the cloying scent of death. Mom begged me not to revisit the past. I have to. It’s the only way I’ll ever be free.

“Do you have student identification?”

The question rattles me. “Excuse me?”

Holden stands and begins to pace the length of his generous office. Every few seconds, he turns to face the window, then pivots to stare at me. His eyes smolder with conflicting emotions. It’s like he can’t tell if he wants to strangle me or fuck me.

Holy shit, Chelsea. I blink at the ridiculousness of my wayward thoughts.

Holden turns again and puts his hands in his pockets, drawing my attention to his firm torso. A blue tie hangs from his neck like an arrow, pointing downward to the muscles rippling beneath his crisp white shirt. My gaze lingers on his groin. I’m probably imagining it, but I’d swear his cock has gone partially erect. A blush creeps up the side of my neck and I look away.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“Of course not,” I blurt out, shocked by the accusation. “I’d tell you if I was a journalist.”

My chest squeezes at yet another misleading statement. I’m not a journalist, but I haven’t been up front with him either. My dissertation is part of why I’m here, but my true agenda is to once and for all uncover the truth behind the tragedy that continues to haunt me.

The community lost a beloved teacher.