Nakita.
My ears rang with the memory. It was a funny moment. Nothing sad about it. It had only been Stark, Nakita, Baptiste, and I. Four people fighting and shooting around a regular backyard like crazy people. But they took a chance with me. They believed in my dream even though they couldn’t see it.
I typed into my phone.
Me: Stay at the airport.
Stark: I don’t want to get killed.
Me: You won’t. Stay there.
Stark: Okay.
I put my phone back in my pocket.
The audience laughed.
Think.
Nakita was dead. I’d seen parts of her body, but especially half of her smashed in face. While I would’ve been happy at the thought of Nakita somehow being resurrected and stalking Zola for some odd zombie vendetta, I knew it wasn’t her. I would’ve loved to see Nakita—walking dead or magically alive. But Nakita was dead, and Stark had flown out of New York, scared as fuck.
And Baptiste was here.
In fact, he’d always been here.
Goddamn it.
Zola rose from her seat and began to walk up to the stage.
It was Baptiste the whole time? No.
With this new knowledge, I wanted her out of this place right now. Slowly, I followed her. She continued toward the stage. I kept my pace next to her.
People clapped.
I held my hand out and guided her up the stairs to the stage.
No. It couldn’t have been him. Think. I’m missing something.
When we stepped on, I stayed right behind her, scanning the audience.
The ballroom lights dimmed more. A spotlight shone on Zola as she began talking about the organization. While I would’ve loved to pay attention to her address, loving to hear her voice when she went full-geek, I had to pay attention.
My nerves flared on edge.
With the brightness down, the entire ballroom was almost dark but for the candles on each table.
But everything is pointing to Baptiste. Stark wouldn’t have run, if not for him being involved. So, why would Baptiste do this?
While I’d blamed myself for Nakita’s death, it hadn’t been my fault. And Baptiste wouldn’t have blamed me. He was too superstitious to gain bad karma out of unnecessary negativity.
But if Baptiste was Zola’s stalker, it made no sense at all.
The whole time, Baptiste could’ve killed her. He’s never missed. He always gets the person he wants.
I thought back to all the letters the stalker had sent Zola with the word mine written all over it. I considered the recent ones that the stalker had signed as Brokenhearted.
But Baptiste doesn’t want Zola, and he doesn’t blame me for Nakita.
I knew Baptiste too well. And even though he’d just fucked my mind with this shit, I understood the very core of his soul. We’d killed together. We’d almost died together. Many, many times. One couldn’t fake in those moments—when the heart went sluggish as the body gasped on what was assumed to be last breaths.
No. If this is Baptiste, then this is something crazy. Something out of this world. Something I can’t comprehend.
Regardless, rage blazed through me.
All this time, it was him? All this time? No.
Zola smiled and gestured to Stone Mason. Another girl walked on the stage and handed Zola a glass plaque. In my head, the past days, weeks, and months spun through my mind.
Think. Think.
Before Nakita had even died, Baptiste had asked me about Zola on the day he wanted to retire. I thought back to that moment.
“What about Zola?” Baptiste had asked.
I rose from my desk, already done with the conversation. “I told you. Zola’s my sister.”
“Only from adoption…”
And then Nakita died. What had changed in his mind about Zola and me? How mad had he become? Or was I missing something more? Was this about something else?
While Nakita had died two months ago, Baptiste and I had started killing the Carrillo Cartel members a month ago. The same time Zola’s stalker appeared.
So, if Baptiste did it, then he started stalking Zola right when we began avenging Nakita’s death? Why? That doesn’t make sense.
When Baptiste and I killed the main Cartel members, we’d flown to Montego Bay, Jamaica to bury Nakita’s remains. The night after we put her into the ground, York had called about Zola. It was all well-timed and perfectly planned.
But this wasn’t about revenge. When Baptiste went eye-for-an-eye, he did so swiftly, never dragging it out. This was planned and slow. This situation held purpose to him.
What the hell does he want? And is he going to hurt Zola?
The whole time I was in New York, Baptiste had been my main man on the investigation. He’d told me he took an early flight, but I had no idea when he’d really arrived. For all I knew, he’d headed to New Yok the same time I did.
It gave him hours to ransack her apartment, before I arrived.
Baptiste had even handled the lab results on Zola’s place. He’d been the only person that truly did an assessment on Zola’s close friends. The whole time, he’d turned me this way and that, never letting me get to close the truth.