Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I sit on my bed and stare at it as if it will answer all my questions.
You didn’t poison me.
So what are you?
I picture Chef Charleston. The way he broke down chocolate types. Belgian. Swiss. Mexican. Latin American. American. African. Fat content, temper, mouthfeel.
Maybe only one is an imposter. Maybe the imposter is the point.
A chill goes through me again.
This might be it.
I pick up the bag and slip it into the mini-fridge next to the other side of my bed. I text Chef Charleston.
Do you have time before class tomorrow to meet? I need a quick consult on chocolate variance for an independent project.
He texts back within a minute.
Certainly. Happy to help. Come a half hour before class. I’ll be in my office.
I text a thumbs up, and then I lie back. Stare at the ceiling. Breathe in. Out. In again.
Love is not a permit.
Protection is not a prison.
Chocolate is not poison.
Except when it is.
If I’m right, this is the first clean clue we’ll have. And if I’m wrong…
Hawk will continue to chase ghosts, and I’ll have to live with that.
I’ll have to live with my fear of losing him.
I’ll fix it all. I’ll find my stalker and I’ll save Hawk. I’ll do it because I love him. Because he deserves better.
I turn off the lamp.
And for the first time today, my resolve is heavier than my fear.
37
HAWK
I get back to my place and chuck my boots in the foyer. The AC cools my sweat-soaked skin.
Texas summers are relentless.
My shoulders ache. My hands are tight from the drive, from too much thinking about things I can’t undo.
Images cloud my mind.
Eagle in that hospital bed.
Fragments of Ted’s skull and brain matter on the floor of my father’s office.
Daniela, as a child, being forced to do the unthinkable.
And the man in my barn who’s still breathing when he shouldn’t be.
I need something to do with my hands before I put them somewhere I can’t take back.
I head to the kitchen. A man needs to eat, after all.
I open the fridge and take stock—eggs, cherry tomatoes, a wedge of Manchego, half a roasted chicken. Bread under a towel on the counter. The smell of it—yeast and flour, faintly sweet—takes me back to mornings when life was simpler.
What a crock.
My life has never been simple.
Even when I thought it was, when I was playing carefree games of Monopoly with Ted, things were brewing under the surface. I just didn’t know it yet.
I slice the bread thick, drizzle it with olive oil, and slide it under the broiler until the edges go dark gold. The pan hisses when I drop the tomatoes in. They burst open, bleeding red, smelling like I’m walking past an Italian bistro. I shred the chicken and toss it in with the tomatoes. Add thyme. Smoked paprika.
This is for me. But I make twice as much.
Not because he deserves it. No. Reyes doesn’t deserve anything but the business end of a shovel. But keeping a man fed keeps him sharp. And I want him sharp. I want him to know exactly how deep in it he is.
Two plates. Toast on the side. Cheese shaved so thin it melts when it lands on the chicken. I eat, the good food tasting like sawdust, and then pack the rest in a plastic meal-prep tray.
Time to drive to the barn.
Reyes is awake.
His eyes are hard, but his wrists tell the truth. They’re red and raw from fighting the rope. His ankles are bound to the chair legs, and the sock in his mouth is wet.
I set the tray next to him.
“Before I take that out,” I say, gesturing to the sock, “let’s be clear. Nobody will hear you out here. You scream, you waste breath.”
His eyes narrow.
I yank the sock free. He spits. A hot splatter on my boot.
I look down at it and then back at him. “You done?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is rough, hoarse from the gag.
“What does it look like? Keeping you from running your mouth about my little visit to your place.” I look into his eyes. “I just need something concrete. Evidence of what you’ve done. Then we’ve got a stalemate. You keep quiet. I keep quiet.”
“You want a confession? I’ll give you a confession.” He lets out an ugly laugh. “Take out your phone. Record it right now.”
I shake my head. “A confession in a barn, tied to a chair? That’s worth shit. I need something that sticks. And not just in court. Something your family, your friends, your business buddies couldn’t forgive. Like raping an underage girl in Colombia.”
His eyes flash. “She was of age under Colombian law.”
The punch to his arrogant face lands before I even think about it. The crack echoes in the rafters.
My palm stings.
“She didn’t consent,” I say, low. “So her age doesn’t matter.”