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He grins. “He’s letting off steam in the weights room.”
“Can you point me in the right direction?”
He jerks his head backward. “Down the far end of the hall. Last room. But I wouldn’t suggest going after him until he’s cooled down.”
“I appreciate the concern,” I drawl, “but you can shove your suggestions up your ass.”
I walk toward the hall opening and take a right this time, heading into unchartered territory. There’re more paintings down this way. More rooms, too.
I hear a clang as I approach the glass door at the very end. Then another. Weights colliding with metal. The impact sounds heavy, harsh, as if he’s doing the complete opposite of cooling down.
I stop at the frosted glass and listen. The slightest sense of unease skims across my chest, the sensation igniting a mass of goosebumps.
I’m not sure if I’m about to prove Luca right.
Going in search of Cole could be misconstrued as obsession instead of investigation. And I have to admit, the man acts like a thorn under my skin. From the moment we spoke at his uncle’s funeral, I’ve had an increasing thirst to learn more about him. To get under his skin. To understand the world through his eyes.
That doesn’t mean I’m obsessed.
I press my hands against the frosted glass and push inside.
Cole is on the bench press, dressed in a white tank and black sport shorts as he locks the impressive weight back into the cradle before shoving to his feet.
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge my existence as he stalks to the pull-up bar to start hauling himself up and down, a masculine display on repeat.
I drag my gaze from his sweat-slicked skin, showing a similar lack of interest as I scope out the room, his breathy sounds of exertion taunting me.
There’s a mass of equipment in here. A treadmill. Rower. Medicine balls. Elliptical trainer. Spin bike. The list goes on and on. There even looks to be a wooden door leading to a sauna in the far corner.
I keep my focus on that door, watching Cole from the corner of my eye until he drops to the floor. I use the break in exercise to gain his attention, raising my brows at him in a silent question.
I don’t know what I’m asking exactly. I don’t know much of anything as he grips the hem of his tank, raising the material to wipe the sweat from his face. He exposes all those muscles normally hidden from view.
All the perfected strength.
All the beauty tainted by his personality.
“What do you want, Nissa?” Aggression coats his tone. There’s no calm. No calculation. His voice is filled with barely contained rage.
“I want to talk.”
He scoffs out a laugh. “We’ve needed to talk for twenty-four hours. What’s the rush now?”
Yet again, I’m stuck on what to say—truth or lies, deception or brutal honesty. Which path will get me out of this maze?
“You’re spiraling. I need to know what that means for me.”
Those eyes narrow as he grips the pull-up bar, his fingers cinched tight. “You’ve been talking to Luca.”
“I overheard you two arguing by the pool. You were upset.”
“Upset?” He lifts his chin over the bar, then again and again, his arm muscles bending and flexing with the exertion. “I’m sorry my response to pla
He’s wrong.
The response isn’t unwanted. If anything, his reaction is what I’ve been searching for. Knowing he’s not emotionless gives me hope for my future. “If you don’t want to go through with this, why are you?”
He drops back to the ground, his chest rapidly rising and falling with aggressive breaths. “What’s the point in explaining? You won’t understand. Not when all you want to do is look down on me from your fucking high horse.”
I jut my chin, unable to remain still at the insult. “Make me understand.”
He laughs again, the sound bitter. “You have rose-tinted glasses, Niss. You think the justice system is this perfect utopia that punishes the bad and protects the good.”
“No, I don’t. I know there are faults.”
“Then why do you fucking defend it? Why are you on the front lines, claiming victims?”
“Victims? You’re—” I snap my mouth shut, biting back the remark. I silently count to ten, calming myself. “I put away criminals. I make the community safe.”
“Like hell you do. You put away petty crims. Low-level scum. You imprison the fools who are too powerless to buy their freedom. Occasionally, you’ll bag someone who can cause real damage, but it’s rare, because anyone like me knows your system is flawed. Lawyers manipulate juries. Judges and authorities can be bought or threatened. Evidence is tampered with. There’s nothing that can’t be swept under the rug. I could sit here for hours and name people who have walked free from the harshest crimes because they have money and influence, yet you call it a justice system. And those who remain behind bars are nothing but a burden on society. Do you know how many people are currently incarcerated, Ms. Fox? Do you know the amount of tax-payer dollars spent every year to let rapists and murderers live? Because I sure as hell do.”
He’s smart. And informed.
His knowledge isn’t a surprise. But the unwanted twinge of respect itching behind my sternum is.
The fact he pays attention means he’s thought about the effect of his actions on the community. There’s logic to his system. It may be severely unhinged logic, but it’s there nonetheless.
“We need rules, Cole. Society would implode without them.”
“Society is already imploding,” he snaps. “And your system is to blame. At least where I’m concerned, I ensure those who break the rules are a burden to no one but themselves. My punishments are swift and impact nobody but the culprit.”
“That’s a lie.” I step forward. “Your physical punishments impact hospitals. Nursing staff. Doctors. They change the lives of friends and relatives of those you find guilty. It incites more aggression and violence.”
“It inspires loyalty and fear, which breeds compliance.” He stalks to the padded bench press and positions himself beneath the weighted bar. “Imprisonment has a major psychological impact that goes hand in hand with the huge expense. How can you not see how it fails society?” He pushes out five repetitions, grunting with the lift and fall of the heavy weight.
“Okay, I’ll admit our system is flawed. But you’re looking at the situation entirely one-sided. Following the law is far better than an eye for an eye.” I take another step, not sure if I’m inching closer toward conflict or common ground.
If I wanted, I could hurt him.
Kill him.
Right here. Right now.
All I’d need to do is grab that bar and press down with all my weight.
Simple.
Easy.
“Why is it better?” He struggles through more repetition, sweat beading his face, veins bulging in his neck. He clinks the heavy weight into the cradle, then lets his arms fall to his sides. “Give me one good reason.”
“I could give you hundreds.”
He glares. “I’m only looking for one.”
I get it. He’s lived with this mindset all his life. He doesn’t understand my reasoning. He probably never will. He’s been brainwashed by his upbringing.
“For starters, by my society’s rules, nobody is ever placed in your position. Not one person has ever had to kill their own father in the name of justice.”
“I can deal with my situation.” He reclaims the bar and pumps the iron, harder, faster, punishing himself.
“Are you sure?” I continue forward, one step, two. I creep closer toward risky possibilities as the weight rises and falls, those arms trembling under the pressure. “Can you honestly say you feel comfortable killing your dad?”