At the private hospital, Clyde stood near the wide glass windows, the pale morning light washing over his face. His phone screen glowed faintly in his palm, and he stared at it with a helpless expression that deepened the crease between his brows. He had felt comfortable too soon, too trusting, too quick to believe that things had finally calmed down.
Micah Ramsy was many things, but predictable wasn't one of them.
Clyde could already imagine what had happened. Either Micah had recalled something Darcy had said after he left, or that damn dark-haired boy, Darcy himself, had accidentally spilled the truth.
Either way, he had to find that troublemaker.
He slipped his phone into his coat pocket, snatched the warm porridge box from the counter, and turned sharply toward the exit.
Outside, the wind carried a faint chill. He extended the porridge box to the bodyguard standing beside the car. "Here, it's yours."
