Her mind swirled. He was suggesting Dow didn’t just know about his possible abduction but had been involved in it. Had set him up. “Dow would have no reason to do that. Dow didn’t even know who you—”
“The date on the notes app is also the same day your father had an appointment at his shop,” Evan said softly.
She gave a jolt as the further implication of what he was saying hit her. “No. No way. Are you blaming my father for this?” she asked, her voice incredulous with the shock she felt zipping down her limbs. “You think my father had his hacker friend break into this site and set you up to be part of this sick, nasty game as what? As what, Evan? Revenge against your father?”
“What else makes sense?” His voice was calm but wary. He was looking at her like he knew his suggestion was likely to make her explode in anger. And yet she also saw the resolve in his eyes. What he was saying made sense to him. But it didn’t to her. No.
“Anything else makes sense,” she gritted, attempting desperately to keep her cool even while her blood was boiling.
He let out a whoosh of breath, dragging his hand through his hair. She caught sight of the white scars on his knuckle, and they served to cool her ire. The moment he’d caused the terrible injury that had resulted in those scars flashed in her mind . . . the pure grit it had taken to keep going in the face of excruciating pain. For a greater purpose. As a punishment he didn’t deserve. For her.
“Listen,” he said. “He might have had second thoughts. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe that’s why he sold the ring and gave the money to Dow to try to . . . I don’t know, fix it somehow. But Dow didn’t fix it. Instead, maybe he wasn’t robbed but killed by whoever’s site he hacked.”
She shook her head. “That’s all too wild. It’s speculation. And it doesn’t even make sense. My father would never do that. He wouldn’t.” She turned away, hugging herself.
“Are you sure?” Evan asked, coming up behind her and turning her back toward him. “My father ruined his life, Noelle. You even said it yourself. What better way to get back at him than to have his son murdered by monsters?”
“But your father wouldn’t even know,” she said, her voice weak. “You’d just go missing, and he’d wonder where you were.” She tipped her chin, looking into his eyes, searching them, something dark slithering through her mind. He closed his eyes briefly, looking pained as though he’d heard the hiss of that slimy thing. “Unless your father . . .” Her voice was a mere whisper now.
“Unless my father is one of the men who watched,” Evan said, his voice breaking on the last word. He cleared his throat, though, and she could see he was gathering himself. “Unless the photo of that website was taken at my home,” he went on, his voice stronger now. “That looks like the color of the couch we used to have in our basement theater room. That camel-colored leather . . . it was unique.”
She gasped out a sound of horror, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. The couch. He’d recognized the couch. Oh God. She felt like she might throw up. She grimaced, shaking her head. She tried to work out the timeline, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. There had to be some detail that would make all this speculation impossible. But she couldn’t think clearly enough to figure out what that was.
She shook her head again. “No, no, none of this is true. God, I can’t even think this about my father! He’s dead and gone and can’t defend himself. I won’t even entertain ideas like this about him.”
“But you’ll entertain them about my father? You don’t have trouble believing he could do something evil and demented.” He didn’t sound angry or surprised. Which made her all the more livid. Because he was right. She had no trouble believing his father was capable of evil. The man had been enemy number one in her house as long as she could remember. She felt that way because it was how her father had felt, and she’d carried on that legacy because it was all she had to give him. It was up to her to keep his hatred alive. And, oh God, she was confused and angry, and she wanted to drop to her knees and cry.
But more than that, she wanted to fall into his arms. He saw it in her eyes, she knew he did, and he stepped closer, making himself available. She turned away. She wouldn’t allow this need to take hold. She’d already made that clear.
“Stop turning away from me, Noelle, for Christ’s sake. I can see that you need me. And I need you too. Okay, guess what? We thought we were enemies once and discovered we weren’t. And maybe those initial feelings were born from sickness and trauma. Who the fuck cares? Does it really matter? Does it make them less real? I’m sick to death of deconstructing it. It’s been seven fucking years, Noelle. How long do we need to test the theory that we only want each other because of the suffering we experienced together?”