What He Explores (What He Wants, Book Twenty-One) (2 page)

“Stop treating me like I don’t know anything!”

“Then stop acting like it!” He ran his fingers through his hair, and then leaned against the counter, his fingers gripping the hard marble. I saw his hand twitch, and I could tell he wanted to punish me, wanted to work out his frustration on my body. Even though he’d just had a release, he was wound again, his need to control me, to protect me, to dominate me, already threating to overwhelm him.

“You can come with me,” I said. “If they ask me anything you’re not comfortable with, then you can – ”

“I am going to tell you exactly how this is going to go.” He stood up and rubbed his face with his right hand, and his eyes were wild, flashing with anger. “If you go down to that police station, they will ask you questions designed to trip you up.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head.

“No.”
His voice was a low growl. “I am telling you right now, Charlotte. They have decided you have done this. They will not be looking for you to give them reasons you didn’t. They will be looking for you to give them reasons you
did.”

“But – ”

“But nothing.” He shook his head and his jaw twitched. “The police department is under fire right now for letting Professor Worthington escape, and they were under fire before that for arresting me for the murder of those girls while they let the real killer traipse around Manhattan. They would
love
to pin this on you, Charlotte, because wouldn’t that be a nice little story for them to feed to their critics?”

My heart sank as I realized he was right. The police department was under scrutiny and public backlash for arresting Noah for the murders of Dani, Nora, and Katie and being wrong about it. They’d be dealing with even more criticism now that the real killer, who’d they missed the first time, had escaped from jail.

This would be a great little package for them to sell to the public and the media – the girl they’d saved (me) from the murderer they’d almost let get away (Professor Worthington) had turned out to be a murderer herself.

And then something dawned on me.

“Professor Worthington,” I said, the blood draining from my face. “He must have killed Jason Cartwright.”

Noah nodded gravely. He’d already figured it out.

“But why would he want to kill Jason?” I asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s a madman,” Noah said.

“No.” I shook my head. “No, it’s more than that. Professor Worthington doesn’t do things for no reason. He has a reason.”
And it probably has something to do with me.
The words hung in the air between us, unspoken, but both of us were thinking them, both of us knew they were true.

Professor Worthington had been there, I realized. At my school. He’d
been there,
right after I was. He’d probably been following me. My stomach turned and for a second, I was afraid I was going to throw up.

“His motive doesn’t mean a damn thing, Charlotte. Do you really think the police are going to be rushing to hold a news conference where they have to admit that a murderer they let escape has killed an innocent civilian?”

“No.” I closed my eyes, the hopeless reality of the situation washing over me. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t talk to them. I have nothing to hide, Noah. They said Jason was stabbed, there will be forensic evidence.”

“Like your DNA all over his office?” Noah shot back.

“That’s not – ”

I was cut off by the sound of my cell phone ringing from the depths of my bag, which I’d set on the counter.

Noah and I went for it at the same time.

He was faster and bigger.

He got to it first.

“I don’t recognize the number,” he said, glancing at the caller ID before answering the phone. “Hello?” he barked. And then his face softened. “It’s your mother,” he said, handing me the phone.

“Charlotte?” she said when I got on.

“Yes, Mom, it’s me.” I rolled my eyes at Noah. Who the hell else would have been answering my phone? It was a little thing, but I was already annoyed at her and after the stress of the morning, my fuse was short.

“Charlotte,” she said. “Oh, thank God.” I could hear voices and street noise in the background.

“Where are you?” I pressed. “Where have you been? You know, you really should have called me, Mom, to let me know that you were okay. You can’t just –”

“Charlotte,” she wailed. “Charlotte, I’m in trouble.”

I froze.
Professor Worthington.
“Why?” I demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“I lost my purse,” she said. “Well, I didn’t lose it, exactly, I know where it is, I just can’t get to it. So this nice woman here let me use her phone, but now -- ”

“Mom, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Slow down and start from the beginning.”

Noah was crossing the room now, and he took the phone out of my hand, pressed it to his ear.

“Pamela,” he said. “Where are you?” He listened for a moment, his eyes hooding in confusion and then understanding. “Just stay there. I’m coming to get you.” He ended the call.
“Is she okay?” I asked. “Where is she?”

“She’s fine. She’s at the Union Square Farmer’s Market.”

“Did someone take her purse?”

“You could say that.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Where the hell was she last night?”

“Your mother, Charlotte, was on a date.”

N
oah drove
the two of us to Union Square. He’d wanted to go alone, but I’d convinced him I’d be safer with him than alone in the apartment.

Not that it had taken much convincing.

Maddox the security guard was obviously useless – he hadn’t been able to stop Detective Rake from getting right to our front door. And if Noah and I were right that Jason Cartwright had been killed by Professor Worthington, it was definitely going to send Noah’s protective, possessive streak into overdrive.

I was anxious about what that would mean.

But right now I was more concerned about my mother.

“She’s a married woman,” I raged to Noah from the passenger seat of his Bentley. “She was on a date. And she’s a married woman.”

Noah was stoic, staring straight ahead as he maneuvered the car through midtown Manhattan.

“Say something!” I demanded.

“What would you like me to say, Charlotte?”

“I don’t know. Say you’re outraged. Say you’re surprised, say my mom’s an adulterer!”

“I am outraged. I am surprised. Your mother is an adulterer.”

“Whatever,” I grumbled. His hand was on my knee, and I went to push it off, but he tightened his grip.

“You are getting a little unruly, Charlotte,” he said, his voice laced with a stern warning. “I understand it has been an extremely stressful few hours. But I will touch you wherever and whenever I wish, and that includes right now, in this car.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I must say that I find it very interesting that you were accused of murder this morning, and yet you are choosing to focus your energy on your mother having an affair, which, comparably, is a minor event,” Noah said.

“It’s not minor to me,” I said. We were getting closer to Union Square now, and I could see the tents of the Farmer’s Market down the block – the tables under the tan awnings were filled with fresh vegetables and homemade soaps and art and all kinds of other things.

The square was blocked off by police barricades, so we had to park a few streets over.

I was out of the car and heading for the sidewalk before Noah had even turned off the engine.

“Jesus, Charlotte,” he said, catching up to me in two long strides. He took my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine, his grip strong. He pulled me to him, forcing me to slow down and meet his pace. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his desire to punish me radiating off of him in waves, so intense it was almost alive and filling the air between us.

I turned and looked up at him, letting my gaze travel over his strong profile. His broad shoulders were pushed back, and he walked with an easy, confident gait. He didn’t say anything, didn’t admonish me, didn’t promise punishments or consequences.

But I knew that meant that when the punishment and consequences came – and they would come -- they would be more severe.

When we reached the end of the block, we crossed the street.

“Did she say where she was exactly?” I asked Noah. Union Square was filled with people – families shopping for groceries, college kids playing hacky sack, stylish Upper East Side moms clad in Lulu Lemon, sipping paper cups of designer coffee as they checked out the handmade jewelry and paraben-free cosmetics. There was no way we were going to be able to find my mother in this crowd without knowing precisely where she was.

“Charlotte! Noah!” a voice called.

My mother was standing by a pretzel cart a little further down the street, waving her hand in the air at us, saving us from the job of having to search the market for her.

Noah and I began walking toward her.

As we got closer, I realized she was wearing a very odd outfit for a farmer’s market in the middle of the afternoon. My mother always liked to look her best -- she wasn’t above putting on makeup and a sundress just for a quick run to the gas station, but this was beyond the pale, even for her.

A black skintight evening dress clung to her body. But while the dress was elegant and would have been perfect for a night out in the city, it was woefully out of place among the workout attire and jeans and plaid button-downs that surrounded us.

Not only that, but the material of the dress bulged around her body in certain places. It wasn’t that the dress didn’t fit her – it was obviously her size and it looked expensive, the kind of dress that would have been made and cut well. No, the fit wasn’t the problem. It was more like the dress was stretched, like it hadn’t been cared for properly – either balled up on the floor and forgotten about for a long period of time, or thrown into a dryer when the tag said dry clean only.

Her hair was in a fluffy halo around her head and last night’s eye liner caked her eyes. But the oddest thing of all was that she was wearing
slippers
on her feet.

“Mom,” I said, my heart pounding. “Mom, what the hell
happened
to you?”

“Oh, Charlotte, I am so glad to see you.” She practically threw herself against me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her frame feeling even more delicate than usual as she rested her body weight on me.

When she pulled back, I realized she was eating a soft pretzel covered in mustard.

“The nice man at the cart gave me this,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at him.

A man with a bushy beard gave her a smile and a wave. Great. He probably thought she was homeless.

“Pamela, what happened?” Noah asked gravely.

“Oh, it’s too embarrassing,” she said, with a nervous giggle.

“Mom, where are your shoes?” I asked.

“I just…” She trailed off and fluffed her hair, giving another laugh.

“Pamela,” Noah said, sounding impatient. “You need to tell us what happened.”

She nodded, evidently deciding to listen to him even if she wouldn’t listen to her own daughter. “I was on a date,” she said, glancing at me with trepidation.

It was one of the first times I could remember my mother looking at me with any kind of anxiety or worry about what my reaction might be to something she’d said. I didn’t delude myself into thinking she cared about my opinion – more likely she was afraid I would insist on telling my stepfather she was having an affair. If that was what she was worried about, she needn’t have bothered.

I had zero interest in getting involved in my mother’s romantic life.

“Mom – ” I started impatiently, but Noah gave me a warning squeeze of my hand.

I glanced up at him and he gave me a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. I knew what he was thinking.
Don’t push her or she won’t talk.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

“It was a wonderful date,” she said, taking another bite of her pretzel and wiping at her mouth daintily with a napkin. “He took me to dinner at the Russian Tea Room. I didn’t even know the Russian Tea Room was still around, did you, Charlotte?”

I was no socialite, but I wasn’t sure the Russian Tea Room was what it used to be. It seemed like it attracted old money and really snooty rich people, and that it wasn’t at all hip or modern. But my mother probably thought it was so sophisticated.

I didn’t answer her question, opting to stay silent rather than risk losing it and causing a scene in the middle of Union Square.

“Anyway, we had the best dinner, and then we went dancing and then he took me back to his apartment.” She swallowed a bite of pretzel and thrust her chin in the air, daring me to judge her for sleeping with someone on a first date. When I still didn’t say anything, she said, “He was very gentle.”

“Gross,” I said under my breath.

Noah’s took his hand from mine and slipped it around my waist, pulling me toward him. The feel of his touch on my hip was steadying, and I felt my heart rate instantly slow, my anxiety instantly dissipating.

“Pamela, where are your shoes?” Noah asked, his voice gentle but firm. “And your phone?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” She was finished with her pretzel now, and she crumpled up the clear wrapper and twisted it nervously in her hands. “This morning, my date, his…his whole demeanor just changed. He asked me to go downstairs to get the newspaper and when I tried to come back to his apartment, the door was locked.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “And your shoes and purse were inside?”

“Yes.” She twisted the wrapper tighter. “What I can’t understand is just… why would he do that?” Her head snapped up and her eyes got wide. “You don’t think something happened to him, do you?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like a heart attack,” she said, her face starting to go pale.

“No,” Noah said. “He did not have a heart attack, Pamela.”

“Of course he didn’t have a heart attack!” I said, my blood pressure beginning to skyrocket again. “He got what he wanted out of you, Mom, and then he tossed you away.”