Forgive Me Kateri Stanley (good romance books to read TXT) 📖

strong. I know in this moment why I'm in love with you, why you're my light in this dark horrible world. You explain what you’ve uncovered, and a shiver runs down my spine. I can feel ghosts crowding around the room already.

Our daughter hangs onto you, she reminds me of a baby orangutan clutching onto its mother. Her ice blue eyes, my eyes, waft to you. She is utterly besotted. I can relate to it. With telepathic coincidence, her eyes snap back to me and they harden. I can imagine her voice, whispering to me. She's mine old man, she says. You can’t have her. Back off.

I want to retreat. I find her gaze frightening. I’m trying to make sense of everything; the newspaper cut outs on the walls, the strings lacing out in different pathways. It’s difficult to piece together. I’m trying to understand your collection of secrets.

“My research began with these.” You snatch a picture and a light blue blanket from your desk, handing them to me.

The blanket was small, made for the size of a new born child. The photo is not the one you took from the Kaltheia ruin, back where I showed you what I really was, the one of you and your mother. That’s out on show in the bedroom.

“I think this is where your story started,” you say.

I stare at the photo. A group of people stand. Some are dressed in long white lab jackets and others are in suits. It had been professionally taken as everyone is standing in descending levels. The lab workers consist of the top tiers while the below are in suits, I expect these people are the corporate management team. I can tell. Your father’s face sticks out to me like a saw thumb. He is in the lowest row. The king always sits in the middle. His bright smile makes my blood boil fleetingly. The happiness shining from his face makes me feel sick.

His hand is joined with another man's grasp and I recognise him. Gerald Blair. Then on either side is Sheila, Victoria and Paul. The five monsters who enjoyed torturing me, hurting and maiming a poor defenceless child. They are my ghosts. The victims of the cruel and sadistic Night Scrawler. Something I thought I’d left behind the second my axe came down on your father’s neck.

Chapter Thirty-One

Stripe watched Isaac trying to absorb the stories. He possessed a naturally light complexion, but this time he was paler than usual. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Sofia squirmed in her arms whimpering, she wanted to sleep. Stripe didn’t want to add fuel to the fire but she ignored her instincts and plucked something from the table.

Isaac looked frightened to take them. “What are these?”

“Heather Blair. It was the only picture I could find of her.”

It was a black and white headshot. Her hair hung long and sleek like a sheet. She had a slender porcelain innocent face. Her lips were parted slightly, as if she was about to speak, perhaps she was having a conversation with the photographer. Maybe it was Stripe’s romantic imagination but there was something about the sharpness of her cheekbones and the shape of her mouth, she wondered if Heather possessed a string of Native American heritage. With the lack of colour in the shot, her piercing eyes held the viewer to the spot. Heather was beautiful, intoxicating even, painting herself as an ideal Snow White. Stripe had seen those eyes before; in the face of her daughter and the man standing across from her.

“Who-who is she?” Isaac asked. She’d never seen him so nervous. Not since they first reunited back at his house.

“This is the blanket you were wrapped in when you were born.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Heather Blair. She’s your mother, Isaac.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The hunter stood outside the offices of Titan News. He walked through the lobby, quietly observing and was pleasantly greeted by the receptionist. She was a pretty woman with long beautiful chestnut hair falling to her chest in soft curls. She had kind sparkling brown eyes. If I was normal, I’d ask her out.

“Hi, can I help you, Sir?” she asked.

No, it’s - I’m sorry, what? He’d never been addressed in that way and he made sure to add a smile, he wasn't used to the facial expression. It pinched at his cheeks. “I’m looking for someone who can help me with my story.”

“Have you read or seen anything from our news outlet before?”

“Yes, I have actually. I read two articles which were really intriguing. It was about Charles Libby and Isaac Payne by Stripe McLachlan. An impressive journalist. It would mean the world to me if she could help me with my story.”

The receptionist smiled, tapping her painted fingernails on her keyboard. Her skin shined, as if it was made of plastic or her skin was suffocating in litres of makeup. “Well, Stripe McLachlan is currently on maternity leave. She's not working on any stories at this time.”

I know that. “Oh, okay. I didn't know she was having a baby. Do you know when she will be back at work or if there’s another way I can contact her? Does she have social media? Twitter perhaps?”

“I’m not allowed to disclose personal information. Our journalists don’t have social media accounts. Clients have to apply to us directly. Sorry, Sir.”

“Understandable. Don’t worry.”

“We do have other journalists available who can help you.” She turned to a box on her desk and pulled out a clipboard. “If you fill these forms out, we can make sure your story gets told the right way, the way you want it.”

Her words sound rehearsed. She’s been trained to say this. Like a robot. For a moment, he could sympathise. He’d experienced the life of working for an organisation where he pushed every effort for the boss’s approval. He didn’t have the time to talk to her about it, he needed to get back to his siblings. The hunter leant towards the receptionist. “I only want Stripe