“It wasn’t anything you did.”

“You’re probably right.”

“No,” Candice said, getting some steel in her voice, “I am right.”

“I’m not, like, looking to get back together with him or anything. What I do need to do, though, is to confront him.”

“Why? Paul’s incapable of telling the truth.”

“Which, again, is what my therapist said. But for me to get closure—for me to move on, get back to my life—she said I’ve got to confront him. Not over text or on the phone but in person. She said I need to tell him exactly how what he did affected me. Example she used was a victim of a violent crime. Victims are allowed to read what’s called a victim impact statement to the court. It’s gives them their power back, offers them closure.”

“Good luck.”

“Do you have any ideas about where I might be able to find him?”

Candice shook her head. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him in . . . Christ, it’s been almost a year.” She grew very still, just for a moment. Then she took in a deep breath. “Confronting him is a waste of time.”

“But I’ve got to at least try.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Paul,” Candice said, “is evil.”

CHAPTER 42

SEBASTIAN SAT ALONE in his car, parked near the front of the hotel, listening to Faye Simpson’s conversation with Candice Jackson over his earpiece. He had tipped the valet guy a few hundred to let him park there for an hour or so.

Faye’s voice filled his earpiece: “What do you mean, evil?”

Candice Jackson didn’t answer. The silence stretched on longer than he cared for, wishing Faye would say something so Candice wouldn’t leave. That being said, he wasn’t there, couldn’t see Candice—and Frank had been right about Faye being smart. She knew how to steer a conversation, knew when to push and when to hold back.

“I can’t keep this bottled up inside,” Candice said—more to herself, Sebastian thought, than to Faye. “I have to come clean. Own up to what I did.”

Sebastian relaxed a bit against his seat.

Candice said, “Okay, so, like you, I’m in therapy. Been going twice a week for a month now. I’ve got what my therapist calls an Electra complex, which is a really fancy way of saying I suffer from major daddy issues. And she’s right. Unfortunately.” Candice paused, took a breath. “I’m a people pleaser. Always have been.”

“How long were you guys together?” Faye asked.

“We didn’t . . . Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Absolutely. Anything.”

“It’s about carrier blood,” Candice said. “You ever try it?”

Faye chuckled. “I wish. I can’t afford it—I’m talking about the real stuff, not the crap people get in blood dens.”

“Stay away from all of it. It will seriously screw you up.”

“You’ve tried it?”

“Tried it?” Candice snorted. “I was addicted to it.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Candice paused.

“I’m not trying to pry, honest to God,” Faye said. “I’m just—well, I’d be lying if I said carrier blood wasn’t something I’m considering down the road. Women—especially women in this town—we need—”