Nothing inevitable about it. I said I was keeping her, and I damn well meant it.
His phone buzzed in his hand, and Beckett frowned as voice mail after voice mail appeared. Three from the superintendent of his building and five from Frank. “What the fuck?”
Samara set down the magazine she’d been idly flipping through. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.” He bypassed the voice mails and called Frank directly.
The phone didn’t even ring before his friend was on the other line. “Thank fuck. I thought you were supposed to be back in Houston last night. I was just on the phone with the damn airport, threatening my way into getting your flight plans.”
Samara shifted closer, her dark eyes worried. Beckett was worried. Since they’d known each other, Frank was always the calm and measured one. He’d heard the man raise his voice only a handful of times in a decade. “Frank, what happened?”
“Someone broke into your apartment. The superintendent called me right after he called the cops. You weren’t home and I’m apparently your emergency contact.”
A break-in.
Beckett frowned. A break-in was bad, but it wasn’t any worse than the damn fire. “I don’t—”
“It wasn’t just a break-in, Beckett. There’s blood everywhere. I thought…” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was closer to normal. “It was a gut reaction. I couldn’t reach you, the police aren’t sure if it’s human blood or something else, but they’re treating it like a potential homicide.”
“A homicide.” Beckett pulled the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker. Samara could hear most of the conversation either way, but he wanted her fully looped in. “I have you on speaker. Samara is with me. Tell me what you know.”
“It’s not much yet. The police barely let me get a look at your apartment. I have a guy at the station waiting for an update, but it takes time for the tests they did on the blood to come back.”
Blood. In his apartment.
Was it meant as a warning or was he being framed? Only time would tell. “I’m assuming the police want to talk to me.”
“That’s a safe bet.” Frank hesitated. “There’s something else.”
For fuck’s sake. He braced himself, and nearly flinched when Samara covered his hand with hers. Beckett turned his over and laced his fingers with hers, taking her silent support. “Might as well spit it out.”
“Whoever got into the apartment got into the garage as well. They trashed your Harley. After the cops cataloged the scene, I had it sent to a mechanic I trust, but the guy said it’s a lost cause. They put sugar in the tank, and if that wasn’t enough, they set the fucking thing on fire. It was the bike that first prompted security to check your apartment out. The superintendent knew it was yours and wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Beckett wasn’t okay.
The plane taxied toward the private hangars and Beckett allowed himself a full thirty seconds of mourning that bike. He’d had it since he was sixteen, and he’d rebuilt it himself and upgraded it over the years. Countless hours had gone into that vehicle, both with tools in his hands and with the road flying beneath him. Gone. All gone. There would never be another bike like it, if only because of the sheer history.
First Thistledown Villa.
Now my bike.
The apartment…His breath stopped in his chest.
Everything he’d taken from Thistledown was in that apartment. The baby book. The pictures. The other things he’d brought with him when he’d moved out after high school. It was all he had of his history, the only reminders that wouldn’t fade with time and distance. Fuck.
“Beckett?”
“Give him a minute,” Samara said.
Beckett realized he had her hand almost in a death grip, but he couldn’t make himself let go. She didn’t seem particularly worried about it. Samara shifted and rubbed his thigh with her free hand, offering what comfort she could.
He appreciated the gesture even if it changed nothing about what he was about to walk into. “We’re pulling up to the hangar now. We’ll be at the apartment inside of an hour.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Appreciate it.” He hung up and forced himself to let go of Samara’s hand. “I can drop you on the way.”
“What?” Her brows slammed together. “No way.”
He recognized the hurt that flickered over her face and reclaimed her hands, being careful to hold her lightly. “I’m not rejecting you, and I’m not trying to spare your delicate woman sensibilities or some bullshit. I don’t know what I’m walking into, and the acts against me are escalating. There’s no telling what they’ll do next.” But he could hazard a guess. As threats went, Lydia’s were textbook. First she took his childhood home. Then she proved she could get to him both at work and at home if he didn’t bow to her will. Next it would be Beckett or the people he cared about getting into unfortunate accidents.
Right now, the people Beckett cared about numbered at two.
Frank could take care of himself.
Samara likely could as well, but she wouldn’t be expecting danger from Lydia. Her eyes might be opening to what Beckett’s aunt was capable of, but she’d worked for that company for a decade. That was a whole lot of time and experience to be overridden, even when faced with mounting evidence.
“You think it’s Lydia.”
He picked his words with care. “Even without her pulling that stunt with you and basically flaunting her knowledge of the fire, the timing would be more than suspicious. My sparkling personality might piss people off sometimes, but I haven’t been back in town long enough to inspire murderous rage in anyone but my aunt.”
The plane jolted
