Trust Me - Sheryl Browne Page 0,109

as a child had told him what he’d needed to know. And he’d waited, and he’d hinted, and he’d prayed that she would tell him. He’d waited in vain. Finally she’d broken his trust in her. What did he do with it? he’d asked himself. What did a man do with that information when he still loved his wife despite it? His family. His daughter. His son. He’d loved Ben from birth. He was his father. No one could ever take that away from him. Even with Ben pulling away from him lately, he’d made up his mind he wouldn’t let that happen. And now this. His world was disintegrating all over again because of this bastard. Millie would have to live the rest of her life with the psychological damage he would undoubtedly have caused her. Emily had lived with it for years, for some inexplicable reason feeling unable to confide in him.

Jake doubted that an individual who clearly revelled in people’s suffering would experience any kind of remorse. He didn’t deserve to live.

Hatred settling like ice in the pit of his stomach, he pushed his foot down, heading to the surgery. The man wanted drugs; he would have them. The worst fucking trip of his life.

Half an hour later, he reached the address Millie had given him, a run-down car repair shop on the road out of the village towards Worcester. Lewis apparently lived in the flat above it. Jake slowed, his heart hammering like a freight train. Was he really going to do this? Seeing again his daughter’s terrified face when he’d found her cowering in the doorway of the surgery, knowing this monster had used her, coerced her, that he’d abused his wife in the worst possible way, he knew he couldn’t walk away. He’d made mistakes. Several. He’d failed to put his trust in the people around him he claimed to love. He’d imagined his father possibly capable of this evil, he’d accused Emily, he’d even doubted Ben, to his shame. He’d sat in judgement on Emily all these years for not telling him the truth, and then, when he’d finally given up hope that she would, he’d made an irrevocable mistake, one he’d lived to regret. On top of all that, busy with his own life, shut away in his office feeling sorry for himself, he’d let his daughter down. He should have been there for her, for his family. He hadn’t been. He needed to put right some of those mistakes.

His mind made up, he checked his jacket pocket, making sure the syringe he’d collected was easily accessible, as well as some extra ampoules of morphine should he need them.

Forty-Eight

Emily

Icy fear gripping her stomach, Emily climbed the concrete steps leading up to the flat, a forties-style brick-built property with metal windows, one of them boarded up. The paintwork on the front door was peeling.

He’d left it open.

The bastard was so sure she would come, that he would get what he wanted, he’d left the door open for her to walk straight back into his life. He’d been right to be sure. He’d said he knew her, that day in the courtroom when she’d prayed she would never see him again. Perhaps he did, after all, enough to be certain she would never let him hurt another member of her family. This time she would make damn sure that he paid properly.

Pushing the door open, she stepped into the hall, a fresh bout of nausea swilling through her as the unmistakable smell of cannabis reached her nostrils. Noting the damp wallpaper speckled with black mildew, her stomach turned over. This was where Millie had been going all those nights she was away. Where he’d taken her innocence and broken her life to satisfy his own urges, to … what? Throw her away? Murder her? Wasn’t that his ultimate turn-on?

Fury unfurling steadily inside her, her heart leapt when he stepped into the hallway. And then it hardened. It was him. His hair was shorter. He was still good-looking and as tall and muscular as she remembered. Still wearing the cocksure smile that had permanently adorned his face, still with that glint in his eyes she’d mistaken for admiration or love.

‘Hi, sweet cup,’ he said, his smile widening languidly. ‘Long time no see. I’ve missed you. Bet you’ve missed me too, haven’t you? Did you think about me?’

‘You’ve cut your face,’ she said, her eyes going to the angry gash across the bridge of his nose.

‘A