Page 12

Nic

It’s been two hours since I crawled out from under Kai and left him dead to the world.

His jacket—which I stole since it was still raining—hangs over my chair, pulsing with his warmth and tempting me to bury my nose and lose myself in the same scent I drowned in all night.

Exhaling sharply, I rip my gaze away and force myself to focus.

My ‘evidence box’ is open in front of me—the one Theo thinks holds my mother’s ashes.

Its contents are spread across the bed: old newspaper clippings, grainy screenshots, printed emails, and rare, stolen photos I’ve gathered over the years.

I’ve spent the last two hours trying to arrange them into a timeline, as if forcing logic onto them will somehow rebuild the sanity Kai shattered.

I pick up the earliest piece—a faded Polaroid, edges curled with time. A boy, no older than ten, stands in front of a set of starting blocks, skinny arms at his sides, all awkward limbs and determination. His hair is longer, unruly, his eyes already too intense for his age. Someone’s scrawled in blue ink across the bottom:

Kai Chase Mitchell. Junior Tryout Class. Mulroney Camp, Minnesota.

It took me almost a year to figure out that Kai wasn’t even born in Auckland like his records claim.

He was just a poor kid from the same town as me.

And now? He’s a two-time Olympic gold medalist turned fitness god, turned author, and business mogul. He sells success like it’s protein powder, and the world eats it up.

But behind all the polish?

There are no childhood records. His life before the Mulroney camp photo is a complete void.

Which is insane because who doesn’t exist before the age of ten? Who erases an entire childhood? And more importantly—why?

I set the Polaroid down and move to the next piece in the timeline.

The link in the chain that made it all click. A picture of Lana Withers.

At first, Lana was just a woman I looked up to, the kind of person I wanted to be. Then in a casual interview, she’d let something slip.

“Someone close to me left to follow his dream. He worked twice as hard as anyone else to make it to the Olympics, and when he won gold, he never looked back.”

She wouldn’t say his name. But I knew. I just knew. Because there’s only one biracial American swimmer who’s ever won gold.

For years, I told myself I had a reason. Someone had to stop him. Someone had to make sure there wasn’t another Cass.

But I didn’t just gather evidence against him.

I collected him.

His stats? Six foot four. Two hundred pounds. Seventy-nine-inch arm span.

Blood type? AB negative.

Allergies? Latex.

Routine? Swims at least a hundred laps every single day.

And now? I know how he sleeps.

Prone. Stretched over a woman’s back like a fucking harp seal, his cock nestled against her ass crack like God built it for no other purpose.

I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing that fact.

Because now? It’s fucking with my head.

I shake my head, pressing my palms into my eyes like I can block it all out.

I’m supposed to be piecing together a case, not cataloging the way he felt on top of me.

Stay focused, Nic. Cass. Stick to Cass.

Next, I pull the coroner’s report to the top of the pile.

The police ruled it arson and suicide. Like, seriously? That’s so unhinged it’s actually laughable. Yes, Cass was bipolar, but she wasn’t manic or suicidal. She wouldn’t set a bin on fire, much less a whole house.

But it doesn’t make sense that Kai did it to cover up her murder, either. The easiest way to cover his ass would have been to let her burn in the fire. Instead he’d set fire to his own home and then drowned her in the pool. Which is pretty idiotic.

And why am I only questioning this now?

I snap the metal box shut and shove it under my desk.

I need to move. I need to do something before I drive myself up the wall.

The smell of baking cookies fills the kitchen as I stretch onto my toes, feeling the burn in my calves and hamstrings while reaching for a stubborn stain at the back of the fridge.

Still, the stretch isn’t enough to ease the delicious ache in my muscles.

I feel like I’ve downed eight cups of coffee, jittery and restless. Which explains the fourth batch of cookies in the oven—despite the fact that Dad and Bea aren’t even up yet.

But it seems no amount of activity can shake off the phantom weight of his body on mine.

I settle back on my heels and rip off my rubber gloves before gulping down my lemon and honey tea. I hadn’t realized I’d screamed myself hoarse until I tried to carry a tune this morning.

Mortifying, seeing as the guy didn’t even fuck me.

“Holy shit, actual breakfast!”

Bea’s squeal nearly makes me drop my mug.

She breezes into the kitchen, wavy blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders, streaks of purple catching the morning light. A leather jacket over a barely-there crop top, ripped jeans, and combat boots—Valencia’s resident bad girl in full form.

She dumps her backpack onto the floor. “Way to make up for dropping seven hyperactive kids on me, sis.”

“I know,” I say, still rattled. “I’m sorry again.”

“S’okay.” She snags a cookie, speaking around a mouthful. Then, spotting the covered plate of bacon and eggs, she practically moans. “God, I love you.”

Then, at full volume: “Dad! Better get in here—Nic’s cooking!”

I roll my eyes as she turns back to me. “How’s the kid? The one who fell?”

The mention of Bella sends guilt twisting through me again. I pick up my sponge and nozzle and scrub at a spot on the counter. “She uh, she broke her foot, but her doctors say she’s going to be okay.”

Her mother is another matter, though.

“Poor kid.” Bea makes a sad face and shoves another cookie into her mouth.

Then—her eyes narrow as she really looks at me.

I freeze, then turn away, pretending to fuss with the sink. Bea sees too much. She always has. But it’s stupid, really. There’s nothing to see. Kai barely even touched me last night.

“Not to complain or anything, but Nic, did you actually break up with Theo? It’s been . . .” She counts her fingers. “Two days, and you haven’t gone back to L.A.”

I scoff. “What, I can’t stay for as long as I want?”

“Fuck yes!” Bea throws her arms up, grinning at the ceiling. “You’re finally free!”

I blink, taken aback by her reaction. I had no idea she felt that way about my relationship.

I fold my arms. “I didn’t say we broke up.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over you.” Her smirk sharpens. “And you don’t exactly look torn up about it.”

I lift a brow. “How would you know?”

She pops another cookie into her mouth. “You’re baking.”

I blink.

“You bake when you’re excited.” Her smirk deepens. “And, you didn’t come home last night.”

I chug my honeyed lemon tea while mentally leafing through potential excuses before settling on one.

“I was at the Pacific Coast for most of last night. Needed to be sure that Bella was going to be okay.”

Bea tilts her head. “Really? Did you go there to scream at her?”

“What?”

“You’re hoarse, Nic.” She glances pointedly at my lemon tea. “And given the spread on this table, I’d say you had a pretty fucking—“

“Language, Bea!” Our father’s voice rumbles from the doorway.

I turn, catching sight of him leaning heavily on his cane.

Dad—once stocky is now thinner and slower on his feet. His once-dark hair is now mostly silver.

He takes in the full breakfast spread and swears. “Holy hell. Didn’t realize we were feeding an army today.”

He glances from the cleaning supplies in my hands to the almost mirror-like shine of the surfaces, but he doesn’t say anything.

“OJ or coffee?” I ask as he slowly pulls out a chair.

Bea mutters under her breath, “OJ,” then grabs what looks like a child’s sippy cup from the cupboard.

Dad clears his throat. “Good to see you’re . . . still here, Nic.”

Bea and Dad act like I belong to the Aldridges half the time.

I tighten my grip on the sponge. “This is my home too, Dad.”

He only grunts, his expression unreadable. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to say to me anymore.

Then, after a beat—“How’s Theo?”

“History!” Bea chirps.

I whirl around to glare at her.

She shrugs. “What? You’re over him, obviously.” Her lips curl in a smirk. “Since you got under someone else and screamed yourself hoarse—“

I grab the nearest weapon—the cleaning spray—and spritz it straight at her.

“Nic!” Bea shrieks, dodging, then sticks her tongue out. “Where’s the lie, though?”

I swear to God, I’m going to kill her.

“Barry and I decided to take Professor Keoni’s marketing course, after all,” I announce, desperate to change the subject.

Dad, who had just turned a startling shade of green, frowns at me. “Did you?”

I nod, forcing nonchalance. “Yeah.”

He recovers his color back, but not fully. “Thought you said marketing wasn’t for you.”

“Yeah, well. I changed mine—and Barry’s minds.” Precisely two nights ago when I walked out on Theo. When it became clear I was going to need more skills to help my family survive—other than taking the Aldridge name.

Dad exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s good, I think.” A pause. Then, carefully—“Listen, I don’t know about breaking up with Theo, though. Love endures.”

“Oh, I think I’ve endured enough, Dad,” I say and Bea snickers.

He doesn’t argue, but his gaze drops to my left hand. “You’re still wearing his ring, though.”

My breath snags.

Bea hands him the weird sippy cup, but I barely register it.

The ring.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes things worse. Kai’s voice is there, purring in my ear, dragging me under with silk-covered chains.

That diamond . . . belongs to them. . . drag their perfect little promise through your mess.

My thighs clench on instinct, my bottom lip pulling between my teeth to suppress a full-body shudder.

“Nic?”

I snap my eyes open to find Bea eyeing me with interest.

Shit. She must have caught my reaction. I fumble for an excuse. Any excuse. “I—ah, have a million things to do.” Spinning toward the oven, I switch it off with trembling fingers. “And I need a shower.”

As I bolt for the hallway, Bea snickers. “An icy one, I’d bet—”

I nearly choke.

“Beatrice Abbott, are you trying to make me vomit?” Dad grumbles.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen, Dad.” I can hear the grin in Bea’s voice. “Nic’s the one who got her insides knocked around. As is well within her rights.”

Dad lets out a long-suffering sigh. “No, actually, it’s not. She’s going to be an Aldridge.”

Bea snorts. “Wanna fucking bet?”

“Language, for fuck’s sake!”

Bea dissolves into laughter, and a moment later, I hear something even rarer—Dad’s quiet chuckle.

I shut my bedroom door and lean against it, hot tears stinging my eyes.

How is it possible to hate the two people I love most in the world for having such an easy, effortless relationship?