Elect - Dyken Rachel Van - Страница 36

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I opened the door and threw up.

“Ah hell,” Tex grumbled. “Did you have to drink that much?”

“Not the alcohol.” I wiped my mouth. “We gotta get back to the house, now!”

I pulled out my cell and dialed Trace’s number. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

“Hello?”

“Trace?” I yelled.

“Yeah? What’s up? How did it go?”

“Lock the doors.”

“They’re locked.”

“Trace, I…” I gripped the car door with my free hand. “Just don’t answer the door for anyone, okay? I don’t care if the Pope suddenly decides to come bless our entire family. You stay inside. You wait for us, okay?”

“Okay. You’re scaring me, Chase.”

“Good. You should be scared, because I’m about five seconds away from losing my damn mind.”

“That’s not good,” she said just as Tex said, “Already lost it.”

“Just… we’ll be home in ten.” I ended the call and slammed my hand against the seat.

“Calm down. What the hell has gotten into you?” Tex asked.

“He wanted Nixon dead.”

“Who did?”

“My father.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he wants me to kill Tracey.”

Tex slammed on the brakes, then must have realized we were on the freeway, because he sped off again.

“How would you know that?”

A bad feeling? I didn’t know. Hell, all signs pointed to my father killing Nixon, but that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? That would mean that Luca hadn’t, and he’d admitted as much.

Shit, things were messed up.

What could my father possibly have to gain by me tying up the loose ends? What loose ends?

“I’ll show you when we get inside the Abandonato house without getting shot at.”

“That’s fair.” Tex exhaled and cursed again as we drove the rest of the way to the house.

Once were inside, we pulled out our guns and gave instructions to the men that they were to double security until we said it was safe again.

I turned on all the alarms to the outside and made sure that my gun was loaded—twice.

Trace, Mo, and Mil were waiting for us in the rec room. All of them were sitting around the flat screen TV.

The minute Trace saw me, she ran into my arms. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need it more than my next breath.

“What happened?” She grabbed my right hand and tugged me over to the couch. She stopped suddenly and released my hand as if burned. “Chase?” She turned around, her eyes narrowed. She glanced down at my hand. I put it behind my back.

“They’re going to find out why everyone’s calling you ‘sir’ at some point, Chase,” Tex said from behind me.

Mo began to cry softly into her hands. At least she was finally showing some emotion, too. Would our lives ever be normal?

Mil gave me the pitiful look girls give guys when they feel sorry for them but don’t want to say it out loud, lest they make you feel like less of a man.

And Trace. Trace just stared at my hand.

Betrayal washed over her features and then understanding. “His ring.”

“I had no choice,” I whispered.

“The hell you did!” Mo screamed from the couch. “I’m so sick and tired of you guys saying you don’t have a choice! This family, they don’t own us! They don’t own you, Chase! You can get away, you can run! This doesn’t have to be our destiny!”

I scrubbed at my face with my hands and groaned.

“But it does,” Tex said, pulling Mo in for a hug, “Because we were born into it. When you’re born into something like this, the only way to leave—”

“Is to die,” Mil finished.

The room fell silent.

“Trace, I need to talk to you about that night, the night Nixon left.”

Her face went red as she sat on the couch and she began fumbling with her hands. “What do you need to know?”

“Did Nixon say anything? Did he give you any hints about what he was doing?”

Trace shook her head. “He said good-bye, but I thought he meant that he was going away for a while. I had no idea. I mean how could I know he was going to do that?”

“Shit.” I leaned back on the couch and played with the ring on my finger.

“He did ask for a favor.”

Safe to say there was no chance in hell I wanted to know about the favor he had asked of her.

“My grandmother’s journal.” She squinted. “He said he needed to borrow it, but he also said he’d return it.”

I jumped up from my seat on the couch and ran down the hall, followed by every other person in the room. I ran into Trace’s room and began searching the different shelves for the journal. “Where would he put it?”

Trace ran in behind me and began searching where I had just searched.

“No, wait.” I stopped her. “What else did he say? Think back. Did he give you any hints?”

Trace gasped and put her hands over her mouth. Her eyes welled with tears. She walked over to the bed and pulled back the covers.

Mil, Tex, and Mo walked into the room.

Trace sighed and threw the pillows off her bed.

And there it was.

The journal.

And it had a note on it.

Trace picked it up and held it to her chest. “He said he’d put it closest to my heart, to where he wanted to be.”

“Your bed?” Tex said from behind us.

I knew. Even if Tex didn’t. Her bed—he meant the night she gave him her heart—the night he took everything from her.

Only to give her something of hers back.

Why the hell did he have to go and die and be that noble even in his death?

Point, Nixon. “What does it say?”

She peeled the note from the journal and with shaking hands read it. “ ‘Remember what I said, it’s only good-bye for now. I need you to trust me. Listen to Chase. He’ll protect you while I can’t. And for the love of God read the damn journal. I had to pull some pages from it. More family secrets and all that. But be sure to read the journal with only those you trust. This cannot get into the wrong hands, because it’s the only evidence we have.’ ”

“Well.” I cleared my throat. “That wasn’t cryptic, not at all.”

“Why is he talking like he’s watching us?” Trace whispered, tracing the note with her fingertips.

“Because he is,” I answered. “He’ll always be with us.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit suspicious. The note was written in the present tense. Then again he wouldn’t have known he was going to die, and he could have ordered anyone to put the journal back if he couldn’t.

But the thought plagued me. Because it had been a closed casket, and things were too messed up. What if…? I hated what if almost as much as I hated the word “regret.”

Trace nodded and handed me the journal. “Guess we should get to reading. Don’t wanna piss off Nixon.”

“Yeah, he’d probably haunt us,” Tex snorted.

Even Mo and Mil laughed.

We decided to change into comfortable clothes and meet in the rec room in a half hour. I put the journal back on the bed and sat.

“What are you doing?” Trace asked, closing the door so we had privacy.

“Trying to still my rapidly beating heart. I swear if one more thing goes wrong I’m going to hide in your closet and plug my ears.”

“I need to change.”

“So change.” I shrugged.

Trace jutted out her hip and put her hand on it. “Fine.” She grabbed her clothes, went into the walk-in closet and shut the door.

“You don’t play fair!” I shouted.

She opened the door a crack and threw her discarded clothes in my face. Very funny.

After a few minutes (during which I swear I heard her fall down and curse), she emerged in a sweatshirt and black leggings. “I’m ready.”

“I should probably go change, too.”

She nodded and then bit her lip.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Trace, it’s never nothing with you. I swear I can hear your brain actually hurting itself. What’s up?”

“Your tattoo?” She nodded to my chest. “What does it mean?”

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