Ford
IT WAS GABRIELLA ALL ALONG.
How the fuck could I have gotten it so wrong?
As soon as I saw the message earlier in the day, my mind immediately jumped to Genevieve, and I think what's what Jean Sommers intended. To get me out of the way so Gabriella would be free meat. My instinctive protectiveness for Genevieve clouded my judgement and if I was granted the opportunity to ruminate over the text further, I would have realized Gabriella has nine letters in her name too, and not just Genevieve.
My body propels me past Jax who staggers behind me in my haste to get to my bedroom. Given that it has surpassed half ten, that means that there's been an abundance of time for Gabriella's killer to have deposited her body somewhere, and I suspect it has been dumped either in a heap in a variety of locations. There will be no alignment or structure to her body to give the impression that the killer cared for the girl at all—like the previous killings.
"Gabriella!" I holler, my voice low and demanding.
I stumble into my bedroom and glance around quickly, confirming its vacantness. Anger ripples through me, pulsating every inch of my body as it begins to claw up my throat and squeeze. It's too often I warrant my ire to present itself, but it's a rarity that it will wholly consume me to the point of fear for those around me.
"Where could she have gone?" Genevieve whispers.
"I gave her strict fucking instructions to stay in my room," I growl, more so to Jax than her. "No loopholes. Nothing. Who the fuck has been in the house?"
"No one except us guys, and you and Genevieve. What if Gabriella received a message from an unknown number—maybe they claimed it was Genevieve's phone if she doesn't have her number—stating that the message was from you and it was to meet you somewhere?" Jax asks.
My eyes turn to him as the fury begins to morph into white hot pain spicing my body. As much as I cherish pain to remind me that, despite my unorthodox emotional spectrum and crippling insomnia, I'm still human, this isn't the pain I favour. This pain stems from blinding and incandescent anger and maybe one day, that'll be my downfall. Like William with his impulsiveness that will ultimately get him killed one day, this may kill me. The pain that festers from my ire.
"You seem to jump to that answer pretty quickly, Jax. Know something I don't?"
"Fuck off, dude. I'm trying to help you."
"How do I know you're not behind it?"
"Ford, calm down," Genevieve interrupts.
My body whips around to face her, and as soon as I do, I see red. Her expression tells me she's fearful of my behaviour and explosive reactions in this mood, but it isn't enough to thwart her from interjecting in a conversation that isn't necessary for her to provide her input.
"I bet you're fucking happy. Are you happy it wasn't you? That it was someone else instead?" I hiss. "I've been with you all fucking day and it's been an absolute waste. All that talk after training in my car? Bullshit," I spit.
Despite my claim that it was all bullshit—which is bullshit in itself—Genevieve manages to see right through me and my rage. Her expression indisputably tells me that she acknowledges that it isn't bullshit but she's not pressing me about it. Instead, she navigates straight to defensive mode which is programmed into her nature, and there's a hint of annoyance in her tone that I distinguish.
"You don't know a fucking thing about me."
"Cut the shit, Ford. We need to find Gabriella."
"You should have been keeping an eye on the gate!" I shout. "Why the fuck didn't you see that Gabriella left?" Without waiting for an answer, I demand, "Get both the footage and access times up on your laptop right now."
