Chapter 99

Chapter 99
Sleep wouldn’t come. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Neema crying in front of the burnt building she’d poured her soul into for the last few weeks. 

At one dreadful moment, an image of Neema trapped in the burning building flashed through his mind, and Quinton nearly jumped out of his own skin as he tore his mind away from it. He didn’t try to sleep again after that.

But now the night was gone, the sun barely up when his phone rang again. He almost ignored it, thinking it was another unwanted update from security. But the caller ID made his pulse jump.

It was Jay, one of the guys in the It department at Q Clouds, and one of the few people he knew who could hack almost anything. Not a knowledge Quinton shared with people for obvious reasons, and he had never asked the man to do anything conspicuous before. 

Not until Neema’s café was reduced to ashes and rubble. Now, all bets were off, and Quinton had tasked the man to find Jerome by any means necessary. He had no doubt a phone call this early had everything to do with his request. 

So, with a glance at Neema to make sure she’s still asleep, he stealthily got out of bed, walked down to his home office, and shut the door behind him before answering the call.

“Talk to me,” Quinton said, foregoing any unnecessary pleasantries.

The voice on the other end of the call was careful, low, as though they didn’t want to be overheard. “I found him. He is hiding in an old house out of town. It belonged to his distant late aunt.”

Quinton straightened, a slow fire rolling through his chest. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. He’s barely left the house, from what I have gathered, but he’s there. Looks like he’s waiting for someone to bail him out or help him run.”

Quinton didn’t think. He ended the call and grabbed his keys, his anger pushing him forward like a storm. He was done waiting. Done being patient. Done letting that man tear Neema’s world apart. 

Of course, he knew the right thing to do was to call the police and share the information he’d gathered. Two issues prevented him from going down that path. One, the police would want to know how he got the information, and Quinton didn’t want to expose his employee. But the real reason he didn’t go to the police with the location of Jerome was that he wanted to punch the man’s face more than he wanted his next breath.

So, Quinton left the house, got into his car, and drove. Two hours later, he was there.

Jerome’s aunt’s house was small, old, tucked behind a dying hedge and a broken fence. No lights on. No car in sight. But a shadow moved through one of the windows, and that was all Quinton needed.

He slammed his car door and marched to the front steps. He didn’t bother knocking. No. Fuelled by rage like he’d never felt in his life before, he kicked the door so hard it flew open and smacked the wall behind it. Dust puffed up from the carpet.

Jerome stumbled out of a hallway, eyes wide, hair messy, face pale like he’d seen a ghost. “What the… Mr. Fay? What are you doing here?”

Quinton didn’t answer. He walked inside slowly, shutting the broken door behind him with a soft, final click.

Jerome backed up a step and then seemed to remember himself and took a step forward instead, his face twisted in a scowl. 

“Did you burn it?” Quinton asked quietly.

Jerome’s scowl only deepened. “What?”

“The café,” Quinton gritted out, stepping closer. “You destroyed Neema’s café.”

Jerome’s nostrils flared. “Neema? That’s why you are here? Because of that bitch who ruined my life? Whatever she got, she deserved.”

Quinton saw red and lunged first. The move was so sudden, it caught Jerome by surprise, which was all Quinton needed to grab the front of Jerome’s shirt and slam him into the wall so hard something Quinton didn’t bother to check fell off its nail.

Jerome gasped. “What the fuck! Let go of me!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Quinton shouted in his face, his voice raw. “Everything you touch, you ruin. You ruined her once. You ruined her again. And you think you get to walk away from that?” Quinton barely recognized his own voice. It was deeper, darker. Unhinged.

Jerome tried to shove him off. “You don’t get to come in here and attack me because of that slut!”

“Oh, I do,” Quinton growled. “And you deserve worse.”

Then Quinton hit him. Once. Hard. Twice. The third one broke Jerome’s nose. At the sight of blood, however, and the deep groan of pain, Quinton paused and just glared at the man before releasing him like a deadly snake he wanted nothing to do with.

Jerome staggered, fell over a chair, scrambled up, tripping backward. “You’re crazy! She’s got you wrapped around her.-”

Quinton swung again. And again, this time splitting Jerome’s bottom lip. His fists were fire, and his chest was thunder. Everything inside him felt twisted and heavy, a burning knot of grief and fury.

Finally, the assault seemed to register on Jerome, and his chances of getting out of it in one piece if he kept talking shit. He raised his arms to block the blows, yelling, “Stop! I didn’t burn anything! Why would I burn a damn café?”

“Because you’re desperate!” Quinton shouted. “Because you want to hurt her! Because you can’t stand that she moved on!” His voice was raw by the last sentence, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. Damn. Quinton closed his eyes for a second to regain control.

That was all the distraction Jerome needed. Out of the blue, Jerome shoved him with a sudden burst of strength, breaking free. “I will end you both,” he spat, his form already darting past Quinton. Then he sprinted through the kitchen, smashed out the back door, and ran.

“Damn it!” Quinton roared.

He followed, but Jerome vanished into the trees at the back of the property, disappearing like a scared rabbit into the morning shadows.

Quinton stood there breathing hard, blood pounding in his ears, sweat dripping down his back. Reality came crushing back. He’d lost him.

A second later, another realization hit him. Quinton didn’t care about losing Jerome nearly as much as he cared about what Neema would say when she saw him like this. His knuckles were bleeding. His shirt was torn. His hair a mess. He looked like a man who had let rage lead the way.

By the time he pulled into the driveway at home, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving guilt sitting heavy in his stomach.

He walked inside quietly. And of course, Neema was standing right there in the hallway, arms folded, eyes wide the second they landed on him.