Chapter 60

CHAPTER 60

Finn

I pace my studio, my head bowed and two fingers pressed deep into my throbbing temples.

"Skye, are you kidding me? Sheldon Greenberg?"

I still can't get over the news that my biggest collector, who's hosting my first major one-man show, may be linked to my wife's attempted murder.

"Are you sure?"

"Finn, look at me." Her voice is firm and commanding.

I stop in my tracks. Dropping my hands to my sides, I make eye contact.

"Yes, I'm sure. One hundred percent positive. It had to be Nicole Farrell's story I was pursuing. That night—and the ones before it—when I was all dolled up and not wearing my wedding band—I likely went undercover to meet him. He must have somehow uncovered my true identity and gone after me."

Rage floods every vein of my body. The thought of the pig touching my wife anywhere makes my blood simmer, bringing it to the boiling point. At the thought of him putting his sick dick anywhere near her, I explode.

"The fucking son of a bitch! What did he do to you?"

"Baby, I don't remember. That night's still a total blank."

My imagination goes wild. In my mind's eye, I see the pig pinning her down, slobbering all over her, and forcing her to have sex with him. Pummeling her with his one-eyed monster, my wife crying, trying to break free of him.

I can't contain my rage. Standing next to the metal drafting table, I bang it with my fist. My knuckles sting, but the pain is nothing compared to the anguish—the wrath—that's eating me alive. The goddamn bastard! Skye's voice cuts into my fury.

"Finn, there's something else you need to know." She pauses, our eyes still connected. "That night at Christie's when we met..."

"What about it?"

"He was the one who assaulted me."

"What!?" It takes me several long moments to process this revelation as I flash back to that night. I never got a good look at the bastard's face and we never talked about it again. But now, in the back of my mind, I remember Skye telling me the story was personal to her. A tidal wave of anger and remorse surges inside me. I should have killed the motherfucker that night. Bashed his face so badly he couldn't take another bloody breath. Then broken every bone in his body just like he did to Skye. It's not too late.

Skye halts my murderous thoughts. "So it makes sense I would pursue Nicole's story. Attempt to bring Sheldon Greenberg down."

There's no reasoning. I lose it. All rationality goes by the wayside. White-hot rage consumes me. One by one, I start tossing my canvases across the concrete floor. Storming through my studio like a cyclone.

"Finn, what are you doing?" Skye cries out. "Stop it!" The rapid thud of her footsteps sounds behind me and then I feel her hands clutch my shoulders, trying to hold me back. I shrug her off. Nothing can stop my rampage.

"Goddamn bastard. I want to kill him for what he did to you. For what he did to us. And to Maddie." I rip off another painting from an easel and hurl it. Skye tries harder to stop me, gripping my elbows. Her voice grows louder, more desperate.

"Please, Finn, stop! You can't destroy your paintings. Your career!"

"Screw him! I'm canceling the show."

"No. You can't do that! Please, you've got to listen to me!"

My rage only escalates. I'm about to blindly fling another painting, when she steps in front of it, spreading her arms across the canvas. It's her portrait. The nude. She picks up a nearby palette knife.

"Get of my way!" I yell.

"No! If you want to toss this painting, then you're going to have to get rid of me first. Toss me out the window like I'm a worthless piece of junk." She glares at me. "Or slash me with this knife."

She throws the knife at me and I catch it by its handle. Her eyes stay fierce as they fill with tears.

"Do it, Finn! Do it! And you'll be a monster just like him!"

Her words pierce my heart like a thousand knives. I could never hurt my wife! Ever! Unclenching my fists, I drop the knife and fall to my knees. Skye joins me on the floor. Facing me, she tenderly tips up my head and then cradles it between her hands. The rage inside me subsides.

"I'm sorry, baby." My voice is a hoarse, regretful rasp.

She caresses my jaw, her touch as light as a feather. "It's okay. I understand how angry you are. But I need you to be strong for me. And help me bring him down."

I search her steadfast eyes. "Skye, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to do your show tonight."

I survey the dozen or so paintings strewn on the floor. A ten-car pileup, but not a carnage. They all look to be in good shape. I can get them there in time.

Lowering Skye's hands, I clasp them, lacing my fingers with hers. "I want you to be there with me tonight."

"Of course, my love."

Relief laces her soft voice. Her eyes stay on mine, her voice growing stronger.

"Finn, do you still have that dress you bought me to wear that night?"

My mind jumps back to the day I bought it. How excited I was for her to wear it to celebrate her birthday and my good fortune to have landed an agent. That day I met Kayla and she introduced me to the bastard. The irony of it makes my blood freeze over, but maybe it's all meant to be. After Skye's alleged death, I gave away all her clothes to a women's shelter, but I couldn't part with that sexy red dress. I thought about returning it, but the image of her wearing it kept her alive in my mind. I tell her I still have it.

"I'm going to need it." A fleeting smile, then her expression grows fierce. "To take the monster down."

Then, she tells me her plan. Christ. I can't let her go through with it. She's out of her mind and I'll be out of my mind if I do. It's way too risky. Her life is at stake. Our lives, everything we've rebuilt. I try to talk her out of it, but there's no stopping my kick-ass wife. My mind in a frenzy, an idea comes to me—there's someone I need to call. Back at the house, I frantically search for his business card. Shit. Where the hell did I put it? Shoving open kitchen drawers like a madman, I finally find it hidden under one of Maddie's paintings on the fridge. I grab my cell phone and dial the ten-digit number on the card, my forefinger gliding across the keypad like a speed skater. There's no way in hell Skye is going through with this alone. I lost her once. I'm not going to lose her again.

The phone rings and rings and rings. I hear myself curse. C'mon. Pick up your fricking phone.

Finally, just as I'm about to give up, a gruff voice with a heavy Jersey accent, spills into my ear.

"Detective Pete Billings here . . . "