Page 22 of Crimson Love

He’s also in jail for all those things and more.

I can only assume he’s a murderer, even though there’s no way to prove it now.

Everyone always told me my mother’s death was an accident. But looking at it now, it was too perfect to be an accident.

And who would’ve questioned it back then? My grandma? No way. She was too heartbroken and too overwhelmed that she had a newborn baby to take care of. My mother had no one else to advocate for her. The authorities were probably all too happy to close the case.

It was done.

Parker Cross died in an elevator on her way to a job interview.

In a fucking elevator that had just been inspected months earlier. It was an old building, but cords do not just snap on elevators. That shit only happens in old movies or cartoons.

But it happened to my mom.

No extra cables. No brakes. No air pressure to act as a buffer.

And, yes, I know all there is to know about elevators. I have since I was a teenager, right after my grandmother told me how her daughter died. She had to let that go, and I did too eventually. But now that I know Foster was the one who kept my mother from Patrick, I can only assume it was him.

It’s the closest I’ll get to closure on that. The fucker will never admit to anything.

I stand and go to the window that overlooks the mountains and lake from the main tower in the manor. I have not had this kind of time on my hands for ... maybe ever, now that I think about it. And reading letters from decades past is proof I need a distraction.

I have a healthy body and trust fund—the first I never thought I’d have and the second I never dreamed of. Someone in my position should be ecstatic, make plans, and live their best life.

I’m doing none of those things.

I turn to the desk, lock the letter in the safe, and grab my keys. I need a change of scenery. I have no idea where I’m going, but I need to get out of this room and away from my damn thoughts.

I usually don’t think twice about elevators, but my life seems to be fucking with my head at the moment. Instead of pressing the button, I bypass waiting guests and head for the stairs. All of a sudden, I have so much pent-up energy, I feel like I could run a marathon. I’m down four flights before I know it and stalk through the atrium to the front doors.

I’m almost to my truck when something catches my eye.

Lennon Shaw.

I’ve seen her a few times since the false alarm debacle, mostly in passing. She apologized again. I finally told her she’s not going to get fired on my account.

She eyes me the same moment I see her. She gives me a wave before she climbs out of a beater of a car juggling a bag and travel mug in her signature spiked heels.

I change my trajectory and move to her, but my eyes go to her car. I’m not one to judge. Hell my truck isn’t new. But her sedan is not from the last decade, and I question if it was from the two before that. The plates are from Alabama, the bumper is rusted, it has only one windshield wiper, and her tires are bald.

Zero fucking tread.

“Hey, Jett. How are you?”

I turn my attention from the hazard on wheels to her. “I can’t complain. You?”

She shrugs her bag up her shoulder. Her cheeks are pink from the cool morning air, and her lips are as full as ever as she smiles up at me. “I’m late. I had an appointment to look at an apartment in town. There’s not much to choose from, but I’m trying to be proactive. You know, positive thinking and all.”

I lift my chin toward her car. “Your tires are bald.”

She doesn’t even glance back. “They’re fine. Or they’ll have to be. They’re not a priority. I only drive to and from the library anyway.”

I motion to our surroundings. “I’m not the kind of asshole who mansplains shit to a woman, but you do know it’s going to snow eventually, right? Sooner rather than later.”

She exhales. “I can only handle one thing at a time, and my priority is finding a place to live with an actual kitchen. Right now, I’m using the backroom refrigerator and microwave. It would be nice to have a stove.”

“A stove,” I echo. “I can see the struggle between cooking and driving on ice.”