Chapter 1382:


    “It’s you.” Her voice softened with realization.


    Looking past the roughness time had etched onto him, she could finally see the familiar shape of his brows, the gentleness that once lived in his eyes.


    But even recognizing him, she didn’t lower her guard. People change. Time changes them.


    And she had no idea what had happened to him after he disappeared all those years ago.


    For all she knew, this could be a ploy—a nostalgic memory dangled like bait to make her lower her defenses.


    Maia’s tone cooled. “Why did you attack me?”


    Beneath her calm wordsy genuine confusion.


    The man she remembered had been gentle. Silent. Grateful. Certainly not someone who would raise a gun at her in a crowded hall.


    Cohen’s throat bobbed. He opened his mouth, but no exnation came out.


    The crowd, paralyzed by fear, scattered rather than help. No one dared restrain an armed man.


    And then a hoarse voice cut through the tension.


    “I told him to do it,” Jarrod said without hesitation, doubled over from the sprint, his hands gripping his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.


    Worse still, he was already injured, and the frantic sprint had torn his wound open again. Blood seeped through the bandage at his side, spreading across his white shirt in a deep, rming red.


    Pattie gasped when she saw it, but Jarrod didn’t so much as flinch.


    He forced himself upright, facing Maia head-on.


    “I ordered him to shoot you,” he repeated, unwavering. There was no fear, no attempt to twist the truth—only brutal honesty.


    Maia blinked, taken aback. “You wanted to kill me?” Her voice stayedposed, though disbelief flickered in her eyes.


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    This revtion made no sense.


    She had assumed the assassin belonged to Kiley’s n, or perhaps Kolton’s. But Jarrod? The only son of Richard and Sandra?


    He hadn’t fired the gun himself, but he had given the order.


    Yet another puzzle unsettled her. Moments earlier, she was certain she’d heard Jarrod shout, “Stop! She’s Maia Morgan!” And Cohen had hesitated—long enough for her to fight back.


    Why would a man determined to kill her yell to stop the attack?


    Jarrod slowly lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes swimming with exhaustion, anger, pain, and a dark, near-feverish obsession.


    His lips parted slightly as he began to speak


    “I just wanted to avenge my father and mother.” Jarrod tightened his grip on his knees, his breath ragged. “I thought… I thought you were the one who caused them to fall off the cliff.”


    His voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by panic and pain. Maia stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “I had no hand in the tragedy that happened to your parents.”


    Her expression chilled. “If you truly believe I did it, then report it to the police. Hand over whatever evidence you think you have.”


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