Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

prenup still sting. “Anyway, you’re trying to distract me—again. Jack. What about him?”
    Christian lifts his arm briefly and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. Sighing, he puts his arm back over his face.
    “Hyde is implicated in Charlie Tango’s sabotage. The investigators found a partial print—just partial, so they couldn’t make a match. But then you recognized Hyde in the server room. He has convictions as a minor in Detroit, and the prints matched his.”
    My mind reels as I try to absorb this information. Jack brought down Charlie Tango? But Christian is on a roll. “This morning, a cargo van was found in the garage here. Hyde was the driver. Yesterday, he delivered some shit to that new guy who’s moved in. The guy we met in the elevator.”
    “I don’t remember his name.”
    “Me neither.” Christian says. “But that’s how Hyde managed to get into the building legitimately. He was working for a delivery company—”
    “And? What’s so important about the van?”
    Christian says nothing.
    “Christian, tell me.”
    “The cops found . . . things in the van.” He stops again and tightens his hold around me.
    “What things?”
    He’s quiet for several moments, and I open my mouth to prompt him again, but he speaks. “A mattress, enough horse tranquilizer to take down a dozen horses, and a note.” His voice has softened to barely a whisper while horror and revulsion roll off him.
    Holy fuck.
    “Note?” My voice mirrors his.
    “Addressed to me.”
    “What did it say?”
    Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know or that he won’t divulge its contents.
    Oh.
    “Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you.” Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me.
    “Shit,” I mutter.
    “Quite,” Christian says tightly.
    I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged?
    “I don’t understand why,” I murmur. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”
    “I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection.”
    “Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused.
    “Yeah. There’s something there.”
    “I still don’t understand.”
    Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. “Ana, I was born in Detroit.”

“I thought you were born here in Seattle,” I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.
    “No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time. Mia was adopted here.”
    “So Jack is from Detroit?”
    “Yes.”
    Oh . . . “How do you know?”
    “I ran a background check when you went to work for him.”
    Of course he did. “Do you have a manila file on him, too?” I smirk.
    Christian’s mouth twists as he hides his amusement. “I think it’s pale blue.” His fingers continue to run through my hair. It’s soothing.
    “What does it say in his file?”
    Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. “You really want to know?”
    “Is it that bad?”
    He shrugs. “I’ve known worse,” he whispers.
    No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.
    “What?” he asks, puzzled by my reaction.
    “Nothing,” I murmur.
    “No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?”
    I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. “Sometimes I picture you as a child . . . before you came to live with the Greys.”
    Christian stiffens. “I wasn’t talking about me. I don’t want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone.”
    “It’s not pity,” I whisper, appalled. “It’s sympathy and sorrow—sorrow that anyone could do that to a child.” I take a deep steadying breath as my