“Fuller thought it was a one-vehicle accident,” Alex continued. His gaze had locked on Skye’s face. “I’m not Fuller. I know you’re scared, and it sure looks to me like you have a reason to be.”
It should look that way to f**king everyone.
“I’m guessing Weston took you to New York because he thought it might be one of your ex’s, huh?” Now Alex’s gaze swung back to him. “How’d that work out for you?”
“I’m running their alibis.” And so far, turning up jack. So…no, it hadn’t f**king worked out for him.
Alex pursed his lips and nodded. “Running their alibis…that’s good.” He put the photos of Skye’s wrecked vehicle back inside the folder. “But what about your own alibi?” He pushed another sheet of paper toward Trace.
Trace stared down at a picture of himself. An image from a New York newspaper.
“You tend to catch attention when you go places,” Alex murmured. “Guess that’s the price of being so rich, huh? When you went to New York to see the ballet…Sleeping Beauty, right? Well, you were caught leaving the show early that night.” Alex paused. “The date on the image…that would be the same day that Skye here had her wreck.”
Skye’s hand reached for that newspaper clipping. She pulled it toward her. “You were in New York? At my show?” Her head turned toward him. A faint furrow appeared between her brows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, this isn’t the first show he’s caught.” Again, Alex reached into that folder. “Seems that when you were performing, Trace here made a point of coming to see you dance. At least once, sometimes twice a month. He was always there for opening night, but he’d go back, to catch other performances, too.”
Sonofabitch. The detective had been busy.
“You…you saw me dance?”
“He saw you, quite a lot.” Now Alex seemed musing. “He liked to stay at the same hotel every time he went to see you…that posh place right off Fifth Avenue. I believe you both stayed there on your recent trip?”
“Who did you talk to?” Trace demanded. Because someone had been talking too f**king much. This kind of personal leak wasn’t allowed in his organization. An assistant, an agent—someone was about to get his or her ass fired.
“I grew up in New York,” Alex said with a shrug. “I’ve still got some friends there, and they helped me with my digging.” His lips pursed. “Skye, you mean to tell me that you didn’t know he was there, any of those times? With the two of you being such old…friends…I thought you’d—”
“I didn’t know.” Her voice was even colder now. Her eyes were on Trace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dammit. He didn’t want to have this conversation with the detective’s watchful stare on them. “Because we were over.”
She flinched.
Hell. He was f**king this up. We were over. You’d moved on. I just needed to see you.
“He wasn’t just at your dances, though.” And, again, the cop pushed clippings aside. He extracted a final photo from that file. Another photo from the crash scene. Only this time, the wreckage was in the background. Skye was strapped in a gurney and being loaded into an ambulance.
“A reporter on the scene that night caught this shot, but his bosses were…persuaded not to run it.”
She’d stilled.
“That man, right beside the EMTs, that’s you, isn’t it, Weston?”
Skye’s breath rushed out. “You were there the night of my crash?”
Shit. He had to tread very, very carefully now. “I found your car. I called for help.”
Skye shook her head. “Why were you there?”
“I think he was following you,” Alex murmured as his brows lowered. “He’d been watching you for some time. I suspect he left that ballet early, and he waited for you to leave, too. Then he followed you.”
“That’s not what happened!” Trace snapped. He should have told her. Dammit, the minute she’d walked back into his life, he should have told her that he’d been there.
As if he could forget those moments. The pelting rain. The lightning that flew across the night sky.
The blood.
The sick, twisting fear because he could not get her out of the mangled mess that had been her car.
“You were the hero who saved her from death,” Alex said as he gave a nod. “Both in New York, then here, in Chicago. You’ve saved her…what, two times in the last few days?”
Skye wasn’t speaking. Her eyes were so big and wide and lost.
“Someone broke into her studio, slammed her head into the glass…then you appeared, just in time to play her white knight.” Alex’s voice was grim.
“I had a guard on her, I had—”
“Someone set her studio on fire tonight. Before the flames could get to her, you appeared again.”
Skye jumped to her feet.
Trace didn’t move. His hands had fisted. “You think I’m her stalker.”
Did Skye think that, too?
“I think…” Alex began slowly as his face tensed in hard, tight lines, “that you’ve been obsessed with Skye Sullivan for a very long time. Since you were kids, right? That was when you put Parker Jacobs in the hospital. According to him, you did it just because you caught the two of them kissing.”
Don’t! Help me!
Trace forced his hands to unclench. “Parker is a f**king liar. You’d be wise not to believe a word he says.”
Skye had backed away from the table. From me.
“And I’m supposed to believe you?” Alex’s question mocked him. “I tried to get access to your military service records, but Uncle Sam has those sealed tight.”
“That’s the way they should be.” He needed to talk to Skye. Alone. He’d get her to understand what he’d been doing.
“You’re a dangerous man, Trace Weston. You went black ops within months of your deployment. Vanished during your service for nearly four years, then you burst back on the scene with connections to some of the most powerful players in the world.”
He didn’t talk about his service time. Never had. Never would.
“You came back, then you fixated on the one thing that had always mattered most to you.” Alex’s gaze cut to Skye. “You watched her, you wanted her, and you couldn’t stand for anyone else to have her.”