Kain covered his mouth, but it didn’t muffle his snort. His father shook his head, lips pushing together into a tight line. He seemed irritated, except that I sensed that—like Kain—he was trying not to laugh. “Fine. Hawthorne, go get something from the kitchen.”
“What? Why the hell do I have to do it? Send Kain, he’s the one banging her.”
My cheeks were glowing bright enough to help a ship sail safely in heavy fog. I had a counter on my tongue for Hawthorne; no way was I going to let him say something like that without a response.
Kain leaned close to his brother. “You’re right,” he said carefully. “I am fucking her. And it’s great. But the only one who gets to talk about that is me. Is that clear?”
He didn’t ask it like it was a question.
Hawthorne lifted his chin higher, posturing so that his chest nearly bumped Kain’s. “Little brother, you should know better than to try and tell me what to do.”
Before the intensity could get worse, I stepped forward. “Hey, yoo-hoo.” My arm cut between them, waving rapidly to get their attention. “I can feed myself, no need to break bones over who has to get me a stupid muffin.” I paused, my eyebrows scrunching. “Tell me that there are muffins.”
Maverick’s laugh shattered the tension. Slapping his thigh once, he swung his chin side to side. “I like her.” I didn’t have a chance to be confused or flattered; the large man narrowed his joy into flat expectation, all fixed on Hawthorne. “Go get her some damn food. You heard me.”
Through all of this, Costello had managed to blend into the wall he was leaning on. “I’ll do it,” he said. Pushing forward, he moved past all of us in two steps of his long legs. “Not like I’m going to be much help here.”
Kain shoved Hawthorne once, his attention following Costello out the door.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Maverick huffed. “Fine. Sammy, come over here while we wait.” The round table in the den had been covered with photos. He stood next to it eagerly.
He didn’t need to explain anything to me. I knew what they wanted. But will he be here? Could I identify the man who’d spoken to me in this very house, then lurched at me from the shadows of my own home?
The memory lifted prickles on the backs of my arms. Looking over the piles of photos, I ran my fingertips across them. One by one, I pushed together a pile of useless pictures. The ones of Kain and me made me shift side to side; Detective Stapler had shown me copies.
I guess these came from the same photographer. Rapidly, though, it became clear to me that Jameson wasn’t in any of the photos. There were plenty of other servers, just not him.
Hunching over the blurring images, I slid them back and forth frantically.
Why isn’t he here? “I don’t get it,” I whispered to myself.
A shadow darkened the table. Looking up, I saw it was Kain. His eyes were glistening with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“No.” My hair flipped side to side. “Something’s wrong. Why isn’t he in any of these?”
“Maybe you missed him,” Kain said, looking over my head. “You should eat. I can barely think when I get hungry.”
I saw he was looking at Costello, who’d returned with a tray of food. My stomach rumbled, but I wasn’t hungry anymore. Hovering back over the photos, I closed my eyes and racked my brain. Why why why why why? What was I missing?
Cold touched my elbow; I jumped two feet.
“Sorry,” Kain said, offering the glass of orange juice again. “Just drink something and relax a minute.”
Drink something. In a daze, I took the glass, but I didn’t taste it. “Holy shit. That’s what’s wrong.” I whirled, facing all of them. Their eyes were various degrees of doubtful and curious. “Are there photos from the dinner party the night before the wedding?”
Hawthorne glanced at Kain. “Frannie must have taken a bunch with her phone. Mom yelled at her over it a few times.”
Their father jerked his head at the door. “Go get her.”
Hawthorne didn’t argue with that order at all.
“What is it?” Francesca asked, swaying into the room. “Why is Thorne saying you need my phone?”
“Did you take pictures at the party the other night?” I asked, hurrying her way.
Lifting her eyebrows, Fran’s face morphed into delight. “Of course I did. I got some great selfies. Did you want to see them?” Digging into her purse, she yanked out a thick phone that was stuffed inside a glittering white-and-black case. I was pretty sure it had real diamonds on it.
One by one, I slid through the photos as she chatted next to me. Francesca was explaining what she did or didn’t like about her selfies—and there were hundreds—or why she’d taken a photo of every food course. I wasn’t listening; I was on the hunt.
Where . . . where . . . come on—yes! Shaking with excitement, I literally ran toward Kain. Behind me, Frannie shouted, “Hey! Be careful with that!”
“There!” Shoving the screen in his face, I tapped it repeatedly. “That’s him!”
Kain squinted at the photo. It was a long shot of the table, just before everyone had gotten settled into their chairs. Men in black suits were poking into the image on the fringe, their faces blurry or turned away.
Except for him.
Jameson was bent over the table, his hand half-touching a champagne glass as he filled it. The sight of his hard features and reedy torso made my blood race. And not in a good way.
He looked so normal here. When I compared him to the man who’d stalked through my hallway, hovering outside my door as I’d gotten naked . . . it was too surreal.
“Sammy!” Kain grabbed me with one hand, stopping me from crumbling.
Sweat dotted my forehead; I locked my knees, gripping his firm arm with a grateful smile. “I’m fine. Maybe I should eat that muffin now.”
“You need to sit.” Guiding me to a chair, Kain helped me into it.
I noticed I was trembling, but I didn’t want everyone else to see. I nodded at the phone he still held. “Show them.” Give me some privacy over here, I thought, willing him with my eyes.
Kain understood. Turning, he brought the phone over to the others. “She says this is the guy.”
Hawthorne folded his arms. “One of the servers?”
“I doubt he was really a server,” Costello whispered.
Puffing air through his lips, Maverick said, “I don’t recognize him, could be a disguise or just a hired goon. Go meet with the Deep Shots, find out who he is.”
I wasn’t watching them, I was hanging my head between my knees and holding my forehead. Footsteps came my way, a hand tucking against my temple, then scooping my hair up and away. Kain looked down on me, his face tight with worry.
“Here,” he said, offering me the orange juice. “Drink.”
I didn’t argue, I tilted the glass and let the tart liquid wake me up. “I’m fine,” I assured him. “It was just a blood sugar crash.”