Page 71 of Laced With Secrets
Whoever knew the truth had managed to keep it buried for half a century. In all honesty, they may not even be alive…
“I’ve been watching these true crime documentaries lately. Killers—they can’t help themselves.” Blake examined his perfectly manicured cuticles, looking almost bored. “They return to the scene... or they show up at funerals or memorials.”
A sudden sharp, electrical current of rage prickled across my skin. Dominic couldn’t have transmitting the emotion more clearly than if he’d shouted it aloud.
I caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. He had the grace to look slightly abashed.
“No more tracking,” he promised.
“Unless there’s an actual threat,” Blake added.
“Blake!” I admonished.
“What? I’m just being realistic about his capacity for keeping that promise.”
Dominic moved closer, his hand covering mine on my belly. “I know I went overboard,” he said quietly. “But when I thought about what could have happened?—”
“I know,” I interrupted. Despite my exasperation with his methods, my omega purred at the evidence of how desperately he wanted to protect us.
This was my life now—a rich, overprotective alpha with stalkerish predilections and his equally rich, enabler cousin.
I should probably be more concerned about that.
But I couldn’t quite manage it.
At least my life will never be boring.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Historical Society’s reception room buzzed with quiet conversation as people clustered around the refreshment table. I was on my third finger sandwich—cucumber and cream cheese—when Helen Wong approached me.
We’d only met briefly before the service—a hurried introduction facilitated by Adelaide, where Helen had thanked me for agreeing to speak about her cousin. She was in her mid-sixties, sharp-eyed, and carried herself with quiet dignity.
“Mr. Sterling-Hart,” she said, then seemed to reconsider. “Leo. May I call you Leo?”
“Of course, please.”
“I wanted to thank you for your thoughtful remarks regarding Thomas.”
“It was my honor,” I said, setting down the half-eaten cucumber sandwich.
Helen’s expression flickered—something between grief and resignation. “I never really knew Thomas that well. I lived in Toronto. I’d met him a handful of times at family gatherings when I was young—he seemed kind, and he had this infectious enthusiasm for architecture.” She paused, her hands gripping her purse tightly. “My aunt—Thomas’ mother—died without ever knowing what happened to him.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly.
“It was different then,” Helen continued, her voice taking on a bitter edge. “In the seventies, when a young Asian man disappeared from a small town, there wasn’t the same urgency from authorities. My aunt filed missing person reports, hired a private investigator who took her money and found nothing. She spent decades wondering—was he alive somewhere, unable to contact us? Had he been in an accident? Had something terrible happened?” She met my gaze. “The not knowing was its own kind of torture. At least now we have answers, even if they’re not the answers we wanted.”
“You deserve more than answers,” I said.
“Perhaps.” Helen’s expression was weary. “But from what I understand from Sheriff Hawkins, justice may not be possible after all this time. Most of the people involved are dead or beyond prosecution.”
“I know.” The frustration in my chest was familiar by now—the helpless rage at a system that couldn’t deliver consequences for a terrible crime. “But I’m sure the sheriff won’t give up until he finds out who was actually responsible.”
“That’s something.” Helen’s composure cracked slightly. “Still, even if this is all we get, it’s better than never knowing anything.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
She excused herself then, moving to speak with Adelaide and Mrs. Henderson who were busily coordinating with some Historical Society members. I watched her go, thinking about the ripple effects of Thomas’s death—not just his own life cut short, not just his baby who never got a chance to live, but all the family members who’d spent decades haunted by not knowing.