Page 95 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Go get it, Jake!” Brandy shouts. “Good dog!”

Jake bounds across the beach chasing the most disgusting tennis ball I’ve ever seen in my life, then galumphs back with it soggy and sopping in his mouth. He drops it at my feet, then wiggles with pleasure.

“Your turn,” Brandy says, laughing.

I make a face, then pick up the spit and sand covered ball before hurling it as far as I can. Unfortunately, there’s a reason I don’t play sports, and my throw goes wild. Jake bounds after it anyway, heading straight for the surf and splashing in the waves that are breaking nearby.

“He’s going to get soaked,” I tell Brandy, grimacing a bit.

“That’s okay,” she says as we continue walking. “He’ll dry.”

It’s Saturday, but the beach isn’t too crowded. That’s the beauty of fall—significantly fewer tourists.

I’d spent all day yesterday holed up with work. First revising the DSF profile per Roger’s edits, then writing up my notes about Peter and what little I know about how he got drawn into the drug trade. It’s become a different story, and not one I’m ready to share with Roger or the world.

What I’d thought would be a tale about the downfall of a man who’d come innocently to Laguna Cortez and gotten caught in a net has turned into the story of a man who’d been tight with an international crime lord. A man who, despite that friendship, had garnered The Wolf’s wrath. The story’s a tragedy that resulted in the downfall of a family and the loss to both me and The Wolf’s son of their first real loves.

A personal story, that’s for sure. I don’t intend to stop writing it. But as for publishing it? Well, that I’m still debating.

“—who killed Peter.”

I look up sharply, realizing I’d completely tuned out Brandy. “Sorry?”

She shakes her head but looks amused rather than angry. “I said, Christopher was asking me about your research on Peter.”

I pause as she bends down to rub the scruff of Jake’s neck. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

She tilts her head up to look at me. “About Peter? I thought you did.”

I nod. I’d been doing research on Peter while Christopher was around, and we’d talked about it. He even wanted to share my notes, thinking it might help him craft characters. “No, he knows about Peter. I meant about Devlin. Alex.”

Her eyes widen. “Of course not.”

“Sorry, sorry.” And I am. I trust her. I really do. “I just—I don’t know. I wasn’t sure how serious you guys are yet.”

“Well, I like him, but we’re not that tight. But even if I were sleeping with him, I wouldn’t just lay in bed, spread my legs, and spew out all my secrets.”

I wince, both at the harsh tone and the unpleasant mental picture. “I know. I do. I’m just paranoid. It’s a lot to hold on to.”

“You’re holding on.”

“Yeah, but I lo—”My heart skitters as I swallow my words, then try again.“I’m more invested.”

She eyes me, and I’m almost positive she’s going to call me out on what I didn’t say. But instead, she says, “You really trust him?”

I don’t have to think about it to know she means Devlin, not Christopher. “He escaped from hell, Brandy.”

“So have a lot of shitty people. I’m asking what’s in your gut.”

I squeeze her hand. “You already know the answer to that.”

She nods. “I know. And if it matters, I think so, too.” She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I just hope we’re right.”

An hour later, Jake is finally starting to slow down and we’re walking back toward the house when I see Devlin walking toward us. “Two beautiful women,” he says, greeting us with a smile as he bends down to pet Jake. “And one adorable dog. I’m a lucky man.”

“Where are you heading?”