Unwanted (Elemental Assassin) Read Free Page B

lowered into the cold, frozen ground . . .
    It was the worst part of this whole damn thing.
    Knowing that innocent people were dead because of me and that their families would suffer the pain of their loss for the rest of their lives was worse than my mother’s betrayal, worse than her brutal torture of me, worse even than letting down Gin, Bria, and the rest of my friends.
    If Deirdre had been here, I would have strangled her with my bare hands and killed her all over again for all the heartache she’d caused.
    Sensing my roller coaster of emotions, Gin put her hand on my shoulder. But with Mosley watching me like a hawk, she also realized that this was bank business now, something I needed to handle myself.
    “I’ll let you guys talk,” she said. “I’ll text you later after my meetings. Okay, Finn?”
    I forced myself to smile at her again. “Okay. Thanks again for lunch.”
    Gin squeezed my shoulder, nodded at Mosley and Isabelle, then headed for the double doors, pushed through them, and left the bank.
    A teller hurried up and drew Mosley off to the side, whispering to him about some problem and leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with Isabelle. All the other tellers, bankers, and guards stared at the two of us, wondering if Isabelle would start screaming at me. Other people had done so, both here at the bank and at their loved ones’ funerals. I wanted her to scream and yell at me. I deserved it. I deserved all her anger, disgust, and hate, and then some.
    “I need to go,” she finally muttered, still not looking at me. “I have things to do before the . . . funeral.” Her breath hitched on the last word, and I could tell that she was fighting back a sob.
    Guilt stabbed through my gut again, as sharp and painful as one of Gin’s silverstone knives.
    “Finn,” Mosley called out. “I need to take care of this. Please escort Mrs. Vargas outside.”
    Another nonrequest.
    “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
    Isabelle opened her mouth like she was going to say no way, that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself out, and that she didn’t want me within a hundred miles of her. But in the end, her shoulders slumped, and she just sighed, nodded, and moved toward the doors, too heartsick to argue about this one small thing when so many other larger, more important, far more painful things were before her.
    We walked across the lobby in silence. The other employees still watched us with rapt attention, hoping that Isabelle would yell out all the horrible things they were secretly thinking about me. When that didn’t happen, they slowly lost interest and returned to their own clients and work.
    I opened one of the double doors for her, and we stepped outside. The sun was shining, but the December air was still cold, and the wind had a particularly harsh, bitter bite to it. Isabelle wasn’t wearing a coat, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. I started to shrug out of my suit jacket to offer it to her, but she realized what I was doing and sidestepped away, still not wanting to have anything to do with me.
    I swallowed my guilt, reached into my jacket pocket, and drew out one of my business cards. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”
    Her lips curled, and she stared at the card like it was a rattlesnake. “I don’t want your help.”
    “I know, but if you ever need anything—”
    “What I need is my husband back.” Her voice was soft and sad, without a hint of blame in it, which was worse than if she had started yelling at me.
    She was right. Nothing I could do would ever bring her husband back. I slowly dropped my hand and the card down to my side, as more of those knives of guilt sliced through my stomach, cutting every which way.
    A large, expensive black SUV pulled up to the curb, and Isabelle tensed, looking even more miserable than before, but she made no move to approach the idling vehicle.
    “Is that your