Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
The first move in a game she doesn’t yet know we’re playing.
I take one last look around, imprinting the details in my mind. How the moonlight spills through the window and pools on the floor. The stack of case files on her nightstand, no doubt full of the horrors she carries home with her. The half-empty bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet, her weakness.
I’ll be back. But for now, I have my own preparations to make.
At home, I pour myself a scotch and settle in front of the monitors, watching. Waiting.
On the screens, Francesca’s house glows with a ghostly blue light, silent and still. But not for long.
Close to midnight, her car pulls into the drive. I sit up straighter, adrenaline sparking through my veins.
It’s showtime.
She enters the house, and I can tell she’s exhausted. But still, ever the cop, she checks the locks and sweeps the room with a wary gaze. She frowns at the sliding door, annoyed at her own oversight.
I toggle through the feeds, tracking her progress. She sheds her jacket, toes off her shoes, and pours herself a generous glass of wine. I watch her throat work as she swallows, imagining the heat spreading through her chest.
She takes the glass with her as she climbs the stairs, her free hand rubbing the back of her neck. I could take all that stress from her if she’d let me. I could give her a release she’s never known, never dared to crave.
The bathroom fills with steam as she starts the shower, and I lean forward, excitement running through me. I watch as she enters the bedroom and stops short at seeing my gift. I can read the confusion and unease in her body language, even through the camera lens. She reaches out, fingers tracing the lace and silk. She holds the stockings up, a frown marring that beautiful face.
Yes, Francesca. Put that clever mind to work. Realize you’re not as safe as you thought, not even here.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frankie
After dinner and drinks with Amelia, I should have gone straight home, but her words sparked a few ideas. Being the workaholic that I am, I wanted to explore them while they were still fresh in my mind.
I’m fucking exhausted after what feels like the longest day ever. I can barely keep my eyes open when I drag myself into the house. But that’s what I get for returning to the office after saying our goodbyes in the restaurant’s parking lot. Then I hightailed it to my messy desk to cross-check the victims’ tax records to see if they’d ever lived outside California.
Even at the late hour and a few after-dinner drinks, I was wide awake enough to see if the poor guys had crossed paths somewhere out of state—airports, trains and buses. So far, I haven’t found anything linking them together—not looks, careers, or even neighborhoods.
The men were all very different, and other than being homicide victims, the only thing they shared were alleged problems with alcohol. I could chalk this up to being circumstantial. Often, people resort to the bottle for a while over a job loss or the end of a relationship. It doesn’t always mean a serious addiction to alcohol.
I’m not giving up, but after two beers and too many hours in front of a computer screen, I knew when I needed to shut it down in favor of a few hours of sleep.
The sick bastard will still be here tomorrow.
Right now, as I’m kicking off my shoes at the front door and hanging up my jacket, he’s probably scouring Los Angeles somewhere, hunting for his next victim. Hunting for some poor soul—who I can’t identify yet—who will become my problem in the morning.
A laugh escapes me, and I shake my head as I walk through the living room to do my nightly check of the windows and doors on the first floor.
“In the morning, if I’m lucky,” I say to myself, thinking about the middle-of-the-night wake-up call to get to the Beaumont crime scene.
“Shit,” I mutter when I realize I didn’t lock the patio door. My shoulders slump, and I go through every room on the first floor to make sure there aren’t any big bads lurking in dark corners.
Once every room is clear, I make my way upstairs and check the spare room that’s never seen a guest, and then the bathroom. “All clear,” I say to myself as I pull back the shower curtain and turn on the hot water. The damn thing takes forever to heat up—because I don’t have time to find a good and dependable plumber—which means it needs a few minutes before it gets even close to hot.
Steam fills the bathroom as I head into my bedroom to undress and wash away the day. I barely take two steps inside when I sense something’s wrong. Purple lingerie laid out on the bed catches my eye—lingerie I wore for Nate before I found out he was a cheating bastard. And I definitely didn’t leave it out on the bed. Nor did I buy those stockings.