Chapter Twenty-Three

Garrick had been a sociopath since childhood. This sick flower girl fetish was something already percolating in his twisted brain, and he'd used his traveling as a cover for working in a tattoo shop, where he could hone his craft after practicing on prostitutes. He'd loved painting on blank canvases. What better canvas than flesh. To tattoo his creation and embed the logo would feed his narcissistic tendencies. It would be like owning those women unbeknownst to them, and maybe later he went back to make them his—permanently.

When he'd spotted Ahnah—previously thinking she was dead—he hatched a new sick idea. He must have spent more than a year stewing, plotting and planning with incredible patience.

Every move he'd made was meticulous and thought-out. Even Skipper's confession and tangling the law up in Patrick Swain's business. Ty wasn't sure what he gained by that, but at some point, it would be clear—when Garrick decided to make it clear. And he would. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from revealing it. He'd want to lord it over Ty.

Nothing in the house indicated a struggle. He must have subdued Josiah from the beach house and used that to coax Bexley into leaving with him from here. She'd do anything for Ahnah and Josiah. Ty strode into Josiah's room. A total disaster.

Ty noticed Josiah's laptop. He'd forgotten it, then when he remembered last night, griped he'd needed it. Bexley was going to bring it back to the beach house for him. It might have something on it to help him. He opened it and it woke. Passcode. Ty growled and entered Josiah's birthday. Nothing. He looked around Josiah's room covered in Call of Duty merch. He typed in Call of Duty, and it opened up to a chat on Discord. The one he'd seen before.

Ty perched on the edge of Josiah's bed. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and teenage boy musk.

Abe: Meet up tomorrow. Your mom is crazy. The storm isn't that bad and I have a shelter. Get away from that witch. She never really looks out for you, you know this. I'll pick you up at the beach house. SCU will be gone right?

Josiah: Yeah. They usually leave early. See you at nine at the end of the street just in case.

Abe: I'll be there. No one has your back like me. Remember that. When no one has been there for you, I have. You're like a little brother to me. Or...a son.

A son?

Abe wasn't a teenager.

Bexley had never met him—giving Josiah space to be independent. She didn't monitor his activity online at seventeen, and the truth slashed through Ty like hot, jagged metal.

Abe wasn't a gaming friend. He was Garrick. When he'd seen Ahnah, he'd stalked her—too clever to approach her. He'd seen Bexley and he'd seen Josiah and done the math. He'd know she never consummated her marriage, so the only possible father of her son was Tiberius. Garrick began grooming him online. Ty quickly scrolled through message after message, proving his theory correct. Garrick befriended him. Became a good listener and built trust, preying on his deep need for a father in his life, someone who could give him advice and guidance.

And when he had what he wanted, when he knew Josiah fully trusted him, he began planting seeds of doubt about Bexley and his father—Ty. Grooming 101. The seeds became bolder; he grew more forthright in what he said until he had Josiah hating his mother and Ty. Only Garrick had never mentioned Ty by name. Only trash talk about a dad who didn't love him or want him, who wouldn't be there for him. No one would be there like good ole Abe, aka Garrick.

Ty rushed into the hall, listening to Owen talk to Asa from Bexley's bedroom. As he entered the living room, a shadow caught his eye on the porch. He pulled his gun and yanked open the door.

This time the shadow didn't run.

"Don't shoot me!"

Milo Brandywine. Bexley's client. "What are you doing here in this weather? Don't you know the eye is making landfall within hours?"

"I... I look out for Miss Hemmingway. She's real special, you know." Milo's dark eyes met his, and he rubbed his hands on his wet jeans. He was drenched head to toe.

"How long have you been here?" And why was he here? "Have you been peeping on her recently? Was it you I chased? Did you steal the box of mementos from her closet and the photo and blanket?" Ty was ready to pummel him, except he had bigger fish to fry than some punk stalking Bexley.

"I didn't steal them. I—I wanted to be a part of the family. I didn't take any mementos. I took the photo and the blanket."

Then who stole the memorabilia? "Did you hurt her? Take Josiah?"

He shot his hands up in surrender. "Dude, no way! I came by to see if she needed help hurricane-proofing the house."

Ty's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to Milo.

"Honest! I have boards and water and stuff in my truck. But when I got here, she was leaving."

"With who?" Ty demanded.

"I don't know. I didn't see his face. I was crouched behind the bushes, and it's raining pretty good if you can't tell."

"I don't need a smart mouth." He did need the truth. If Milo came to help, why not just knock on the door? "Why did you hide? Was he holding a gun to her head?"

"No. Nothing like that. Seemed like she knew him. It's just..." His face turned red. "Miss Hemmingway said I couldn't help anymore so I was going to do it without her knowing."

And how was he going to accomplish that without her hearing or seeing him? He wasn't being completely honest, but now was not the time to read him the riot act or debate his motives. Time wasn't on their side.

"He wore a suit. I saw that."

"Is it this guy?" He opened his phone to the sketch Smoothy had sent of Garrick.

"I don't know. A suit stood out. That's why I remember his clothes."

"Where did he walk her to?"

"Down the street a bit. To his car." Milo's eyes filled with moisture. "Was he a bad man? Did I mess up again? My dad was a bad man, and I didn't help my mom. But... I thought they knew each other. She walked right beside him like it was all good."

Join the Men Who Failed Bexley Hemmingway Club. No wonder the kid needed therapy.

"Did you get the make and model of the car?"

He pulled something from his back pocket. A soggy piece of paper, the ink smudged. This kid wrote down plate numbers. "This is excellent work, Milo." He must have followed them to the car, and the weather kept Milo from being spotted.

He could hug this kid. Stalking had indeed paid off. Maybe Ty was getting a leg up. Maybe... He glanced up. No. It wasn't divine help. It was nothing but a break, a coincidence.

He called Selah and gave her the plates to run. "I need this yesterday, Selah. You understand."

"I hear ya, Ty." Her keyboard clacked over the line. "Asa says you're not coming back, and Owen's being a stubborn but good friend sticking it out with you. Don't be stupid, though, okay?"

"Selah, stupid is my middle name. You know this."

Owen opened the door. "What's going on?"

"This is Milo. Milo saw Garrick take Bexley."

"How does he know it's Garrick?"

Owen and Ty kept their eyes on the kid, who hadn't bothered to leave. When this was over—if everything turned out okay—he'd have some kind of talk with him about stalking. "I know it's Garrick, aka Smoothy, from the tattoo studio. The artist sent me the portrait. I know who was in the car. I just want another layer of proof to put a nail in his coffin."

"Got it," Selah said.

Ty put the phone next to his and Owen's ears.

Here it comes.

"The car is registered to..."

"To?" Ty asked, drawing out the word. "Garrick Granger."

"No," Selah said. "Dalen Granger."