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Ch20

Brooks picked up the pace, following the winding roads of Malibu with increased motivation. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, relishing in the runner's high that raced through his veins.

Now that he had a plan, there was so much to do! He'd contacted a Realtor earlier that morning, hoping to start house-hunting right away. Other than a few mementos, there was nothing he wanted from his home in Beverly Hills. He'd auction off his belongings and donate the proceeds to charity, that was the plan, because there was no way in hell he would be going back there-he'd made up his mind about that. And he needed to get out of Miller and Claire's house immediately. Things had felt uncomfortable since he'd first arrived, and only seemed to be getting worse. The tension there was building, no matter how diligently Claire attempted to make him feel at home. He wasn't sure what was going on between the two of them, but it was obvious they didn't need him around getting in the way.

Whatever it is, I hope they can get past it. There's not two people I know who belong together more than them.

It was a shame there wasn't something more he could do for them after everything they'd done for him, not only in recent days but in the past as well. If anyone ever needed help, Miller and Claire were always the first to volunteer. They'd made their friends their family and it pained Brooks to realize there wasn't something he could pay them back, especially now when they needed help themselves. Moving out was the only way he could make their life easier, so he planned to do it as quickly as possible, even if that meant staying in a hotel until he found a permanent place. He would give them back their privacy and hope and pray they could work through their problems with him out of the picture.

The police had only come up with few clues regarding the break in. They were able to collect some fingerprints, but the evidence didn't match anyone in the criminal database, meaning the intruder-and possible murderer-had no prior record.

It was just his luck! Some crazy person is out there stalking him, broke into his home leaving an assortment of intimate pictures, potentially murdered an old man who was also loitering on his property and the cops had no leads! That meant the sicko was still out there somewhere, doing God knows what. Maybe they were still watching him? Still taking pictures while he was asleep? Which would mean he was putting Miller and Claire at risk, too. If nothing else, he needed to move out so he didn't involve them in this mess. Ashton and Juliana had both offered the use of their homes, as well, but he'd declined. There was no way he would be able to forgive himself if anything happened to his friends.

Brooks rounded the final curve, jogging up the deep driveway toward the beach house. A refreshing wave of ocean air washed over him, cooling his moistened skin after the long run. Malibu was nice. The smell of salt water, the sound of the surf as it rolled over the shore. He could get used to a place like this. Sure, it was a bit out of the way, but that didn't bother him. Peace and quiet would do him good, it was just what he needed for a fresh start. Maybe he would look at real estate nearby? It might be a nice change to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city.

He slowed his pace and began to stretch his muscles just as an older Volvo pulled into the drive. The door opened and Anna emerged from the driver's seat, causing a rush of pleasure to pass over him. "Hey there," he called out, happy to have the opportunity to see her again. "Claire wasn't kidding when she said you'd be here a lot." He gave her a smile and headed toward her, noticing the look of discontent covering her face. "Anna-are you okay?"

Anna stopped abruptly and regarded him with an expression he was unable to read. Judging from the way she didn't return his smile, he sensed something was wrong. She was uncomfortable, he could see it in her body language, and it wasn't because she was feeling shy in his presence. Something was bothering her.

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