Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

Detective Barrister frowns at the damage to Miles’ car. There’s a tow truck here, the worker bustling around with straps and preparing to load it onto the flatbed, but she pays him no mind.

I’m bundled in my thickest jacket, hat, scarf, and I still can’t seem to get warm. It could be a lingering chill from the freezer, or it could be the words the detective is saying. And repeating, judging from her pinched expression.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “One more time.”

She sighs. “I know this is difficult, Willow. But we believe you’re being targeted.”

Yeah, there goes the white noise again. It fills my ears, and I work my jaw. Bite my tongue. The metallic taste in my mouth grounds me.

“And you think this because…”

“By your own admission, you’ve been driving Mr. Whiteshaw’s car around town.” She eyes the damage, then faces me fully. “The girl who was involved in the other break-in woke up.”

Relief sweeps through me. “That’s great.”

“It is,” the detective agrees. “She was able to give us a statement.”

“Good.”

“She said that the man who broke in and attacked her kept asking her one question.” Detective Barrister pauses. “He wanted to know where his brother is.”

My brows furrow. “What?”

She shrugs. “We’re looking into it. We have a basic description.” She taps on her phone and pulls up a drawing.

Dark eyes stare up at me, and I have to fight a visceral reaction. That face—I know him. Or some semblance of him.

Before Miles killed him.

“Are you okay, Willow?”

Don’t be an idiot, a voice in my head whispers. Because he committed murder in my apartment for me. Or, well. Was it for me? Or was it to get me in line? To be used as a threat later?

My skin prickles, and doubt creeps in.

What if Miles planned all of this? Right down to the police turning their investigation toward this guy he killed? In my apartment. In front of me.

I didn’t call the police then, and I still haven’t. That makes me an accomplice, doesn’t it? If he doesn’t go ahead and blame everything on me. And then I’d go to prison for his—what? His murder, his mistake, his decision?

It was no mistake.

“Willow. Breathe.” She’s got my shoulders, and she rocks me back and forth slightly.

I jerk out of her hold. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just… seeing his face makes it even more real that it could’ve been me, you know?”

Jesus. I’m a liar. A filthy, horrible liar.

“He can’t hurt you,” she assures me.

“You don’t even know that these two things are correlated. What makes you think the one who broke into my apartment and hurt the other girl is the same person who hit Miles’ car?”

She inclines her chin. “There’s one more thing. The other victim confirmed that she was at Prime the same night you were.”

My stomach swoops.

Did he bother her, too? A hazy memory comes back of seeing him at the bar with another dark-haired girl while I danced with Miles. Was that her? Is his brother stalking everyone he had contact with before he went missing? And if he’s circled back to me…

She smiles. There’s a loud series of beeps, and Miles’ crunched-up car is slowly dragged onto the flatbed. The detective steps away from me to talk to the worker, and I’m left casting uneasy glances up and down the street.

I should tell her about the truck. Seeing it, staring it down. As far as the detective knows, the hit-and-run happened so fast, we didn’t see anything or anyone.

It’s on the tip of my tongue, but the words are sticking.

Because if it leads back to the guy Miles killed…

My brain is going on overload, and I think I’m about two seconds away from a panic attack. I focus on my breathing, inhaling and exhaling. And not how much I wish I could drink half a bottle of whiskey to dull my nerves.

We’re talking about murder. He was tied up in my living room, and an intention to rape doesn’t justify homicide.

I’ve been sleeping with a killer—and I haven’t cared one damn bit.

“Willow?”

Focus. “Detective.”

“You look a little ill.”

“Well, you just told me you think I’m being targeted by… a psychopath,” I splutter. “Of course I seem ill—I feel like I’m about to throw up on your polished shoes.”

She inches backward. “Of course.”

“When will the officers to watch me be here?”

“Within the hour.”

I fold my arms over my stomach. “Okay. Well… if there’s anything else?”

The car is fully up on the flatbed now, and the worker has hopped back up into the driver’s seat.

The detective watches him pull away, rumbling down the street, and finally shakes her head. “No. I’ll be in touch.”

Great.

I leave her standing on the curb and hurry back inside. The guys left almost two hours ago, just as the sun was rising. I’m left with a choice: I can ruin Miles’ concentration at his game and tell him what the detective told me, or I can keep it to myself for a little while. At least until they’re back.

I lock the door and go straight upstairs, into the bathroom. I need a hot shower to wash away my horror… and to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

He was asking about his brother. Somehow, he found out where his brother went and thinks that we’re the suitable lead. Maybe he’s exhausted all his other options. But instead of questions, he went for intimidation.

The dead guy’s brother is hunting us.

Not just us. Me.