The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 493

Knowing she was spiraling into toxic guilt, Franco quickly broke through her thoughts. "So grandmother's death had absolutely nothing to do with you or The Lane Family. I swear to you, I will hunt Nanette down. But before that, can I ask you a question?"

"What?" Petty asked, looking up at him through wet lashes.

Franco sat smoothly on the edge of her bed, his presence commanding yet restrained. "Why did you drive to the shipping pier that day?"

That day...

Petty knew Franco was investigating the cartel attack. Their broken relationship was one thing, but Abbot's syndicate was a massive threat that affected The White Family, The Lane Family, and countless innocent people.

She forced herself to comb through her fragmented memories. The attack had only happened a few days ago, but the trauma made it feel like a lifetime.

"After I had dinner with Nash, I originally planned to come find you... I mean, I wanted to find Malcom. I had finally realized that the characters in his name combined to form the word 'Petty.'"

Franco's gaze turned dark and intense. His Adam's apple bobbed as he let out a low, rough hum of acknowledgment.

"I started driving toward Malcom's house," Petty continued, rubbing her forehead. "But the next thing I knew, I was at the pier. I have no idea when or why I changed my route. I know it sounds crazy, and you probably won't believe me."

"I believe you," Franco said instantly. He paused, his voice steady. "I completely believe you."

Petty yanked her hands free from his grasp, entirely unfazed by his reassurance.

Franco's hands curled into loose fists as he felt the empty space where her skin had been. "I pulled your phone records. While you were driving after dinner, Nash called you. What did he say?"

Petty blinked in surprise.

She pursed her lips, thinking back. "Yes, Nash called me. During dinner, I told him I wanted to become a freelance journalist. He called to tell me to think it over carefully and to contact him once I made a final decision."

The words 'freelance journalist' made Franco's jaw tighten.

She still wanted to run off to war zones.

He lowered his head and exhaled heavily. "Did he say anything else?"

Petty shook her head. "No."

She frowned at him. "Do you suspect Nash?"

Franco avoided a direct answer. "Abbot's mercenaries successfully hijacked Laura's prison transport because someone deliberately lured you to the pier as a distraction. I interrogated Laura. She only contacted Abbot; she had no idea about the setup on your end. The person who manipulated you into driving to that pier is absolutely someone in your inner circle. Everyone except me is a suspect."

"You don't need to suspect Hans," Petty fired back instantly.

The sharp crack of knuckles echoed in the quiet room. Petty glanced over at Franco, who was staring blankly at the wall.

His face was totally impassive. "I never said I suspected him."

Another heavy silence suffocated the room.

The moment she stepped into the isolation bubble, she saw the little boy propped up against a soft pillow. He was clutching a baby bottle with both hands, weakly drinking his formula.

When she left yesterday, he had been dead to the world.

He looked slightly better than he had the previous night. But his tiny body was still incredibly weak, and holding the bottle was clearly exhausting him. A nurse stepped in to help, but the boy stubbornly turned his head away. Afraid of making him choke, the nurse backed off.

Seeing him struggle, Petty practically ran to his side.

"Baby," she breathed, her voice muffled behind her sterile mask.

Manley froze. He clutched his bottle tightly, a drop of milk resting on the corner of his mouth. His big, round eyes locked onto her.

His little lips parted.

"Mama..."

That soft, sweet voice crashed straight into Petty's heart. A lump formed in her throat as she crouched in front of the little boy. He weakly extended his bottle toward her—he wanted her to feed him.

Her hands shook as she took it. Gently, she guided the nipple to his lips. He latched onto it eagerly, his big eyes never once leaving her face as he drank.

He was completely defenseless around her, showing a level of deep, instinctive affection that couldn't possibly have come just from looking at photos by his bed.

Someone had spent countless days and nights teaching this little boy to love her.