Regardless of what Julian has tried to make me believe, my father has found me. He’s fulfilled the promise he made while holding a knife to my throat.
“No matter where you run, I’ll always find you, princess.”
The room swallows me with emptiness. The house suddenly feels like a medieval castle, when it’s barely two-thousand square feet.
Most of America would call it a shithole, which is ridiculous, considering the rent Julian shells out for it could buy a small third world country.
“How nice of you to return, Judas.”
Shit.
I planned on Ryker still being asleep so I could slip upstairs, sight unseen. I haven’t had time to think up a plausible excuse to be standing in the middle of the living room in street clothes, with two sets of keys and both our phones in my purse.
And fuck was he pissed…
“Ry…”
He clenches his fists and crushes them to his side, something I’ve come to recognize as a trait in pissed-off Bale men. “Don’t you fucking ‘Ry’ me, Phoebe. Do you know how pissed I… I can’t even talk to… Jesus Christ, you took my keys and my phone? What kind of psycho super spy are you?”
“I’m not a—”
“Do you know what the hell my brother’s going to do to me when he finds out?” Grabbing handfuls of his shaggy hair, he tugs wildly. “I’ll tell you what he’s going to do—he’s going to cut off my dick and strangle me with it. That’s my obituary, Phoebe—cock asphyxiation. Won’t my mother be proud? So, thanks for that.”
It’s truly a sad day when I’m the rational one in the room.
I snicker, causing him to glare. “I don’t see what’s so fucking funny, Gone Girl.”
“You’re overreacting, Ry. He doesn’t have to know anything.”
“Oh?” His lips curve in a mocking snarl as he points to my purse. “Go ahead. Check our phones and tell me we aren’t screwed.”
Deciding to humor him, I dig in my purse, and with a phone in each hand, I activate the screens.
My stomach drops.
There are five missed calls on each from Julian.
He crosses his arms. “Any more bright ideas, Sherlock?”
I need to come up with a cohesive story—lie by carefully constructed lie.
Julian is a bloodhound when it comes to pulling confessions out of me. Ryker is a pain in my ass, but he’s done nothing wrong. I owe it to him to shield him from his brother’s irrational wrath. Plus, I need someone to talk to about what happened at Griffith Park. There’s a part of me still sitting on that merry-go-round beside the jewel encrusted horse where they found her.
“We need to talk.”
“No shit,” he snarls.
I throw myself into his unprepared arms—a move that takes him by such surprise he stumbles backward.
“Are you okay?” He asks, patting my head like I’m a dog. “Where did you go tonight?”
The embrace becomes awkward, so I move away. “I’m fine. A little tired and a lot stressed. I went…” I hesitate, deciding if I should trust him. “I went to Griffith Park.”
“Are you fucking insane?” he shouts.
“Wow, thanks, Ry. You sure know how to comfort a girl, don’t you?” I don’t need this shit. My nerves are shot, and within minutes, I’m about to have a bigger problem.
A six-foot-two-inch problem with an attitude.
He shoves his hand into his pocket. “I didn’t mean it that way. I… I… Damn it.” Rubbing his forehead, he lets out a defeated breath. “Griffith Park? Of all fucking places? Do you have a vendetta against me? He’s going to kill me. I mean kill me—very slowly and very painfully.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I tell him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “He won’t freak out.”
“Hi, Phoebe. Nice to meet you. I’m Julian’s brother,” he snaps, shaking my hand off. “When I was in fourth grade, he put me in charge of guarding his room during a sleepover party for my own birthday. Kyle Manning went into Julian’s room and trashed his model airplane collection while I blew out my candles.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
He snorts. “Didn’t matter to Julian. While I was at Little League practice the next day, he pissed all over my baseball cards and shoved them inside my shoes.”
I twist the dampened hair at my nape. “Shitty, yes, but that’s just kids, Ry.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “He tied the shoelaces together and threw them over the power lines.”
“Oh.”
Damn. That’s a little harsh. Inventive, but still harsh.
“Those were model planes he left me in charge of, Phoebe. You’re having his kid.” He falls backward onto the