Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Another gunshot. Another grunt. Then hands—rough, unrelenting—clamp around me, dragging me up. My head lolls, body too heavy, too slow. I can’t see who has me. The grip tightens, hauling me like I weigh nothing. The thought of Bronco slams into me. He’s massive, a truck in human form. If it’s him, maybe it’s rescue. Or maybe not.
I fight for clarity, for breath. My limbs flail weakly against unyielding arms. A trunk door screeches open, metal on metal, and I’m heaved inside.
I slam against hard carpet, bouncing twice before collapsing flat. The air tastes of grease and rubber. A lid slams shut above me. Darkness swallows me whole. My fingers brush my temple to find swollen skin, no blood, but an already rising lump.
A sick twist tightens my chest as the truth settles in.
I’m in a trunk.
And I don’t know who put me here.
THIRTY-FIVE
Justice
This place is a complete shitshow. My men edge toward the wide glass doors, weapons ready, muscles tight. I raise a hand, sharp enough to stop them as I move into the lobby, pleased Ella has gone the opposite direction. “Let ’em in.” They step back, eyes still locked on the flashing lights outside.
I glance at the dark cameras in the corners. “Also, somebody fucking find Kaz.” My voice carries through the marble, echoing off polished walls.
Uniformed cops barrel in, guns drawn, boots squeaking on wet tile. Their radios crackle, the smell of damp wool and rain-soaked leather cutting through the sterile polish of the lobby.
“The body’s at the end of the lobby down the hallway,” I tell them, motioning toward Sylveria. “Nobody’s gonna shoot you.”
They don’t look convinced. Can’t blame them. My reputation precedes me, and it’s not soft.
An older officer steps forward, easily pushing eighty, though his frame is still lean and wired with muscle. His mustache and gravelly voice give him a Sam Elliott edge, the kind of man who’s fought his share of battles. “Mr. Beathach, I’m to wait with you until the detectives arrive.”
I point to one of the plush seating areas. “Have a seat.”
“Sure thing.” He lowers into the leather with an impressive grace.
My shoulders loosen for the first time in minutes. At least Ella’s out. The thought steadies me. She’s mine to guard, mine to keep. Nobody takes what’s mine and walks away breathing.
I sit.
“Who found the body?” he asks.
I point to the crying woman in the corner already speaking with officers.
Fifteen minutes later, the detectives finally show. I’m not surprised to see Ashner and Caldwell again.
She’s buttoned into a navy suit with a pink shell beneath, boots polished to a deep brown sheen. He’s still in that trench coat, dark circles carved deeper into his face than last time.
They glance at me first, walk to the back hallway to see Sylveria’s corpse, which I assume is still sprawled across the polished floor.
They return, and the Sam Elliott look-alike stretches to his feet and crosses over to speak with my men behind the desk. Detective Caldwell takes the seat across from me, the leather creaking under her weight. Detective Ashner stays standing, chin lifted, eyes cutting down.
“This is a terrible coincidence,” Caldwell says, her voice flat but sharp.
My gaze sweeps the lobby again, expecting Kaz to walk through a door. Any fucking door. Where is he? “Isn’t it, though?”
“Yes, but the good news”—Caldwell’s eyes flick upward toward the corners of the ceiling—“is this is Malice Media. I’m sure there’s CCTV everywhere.”
“It’s my understanding the cameras are out,” I answer.
Her stare drags back to me, slow as a blade sliding free of a sheath. “Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, if only I were.” I lean back, calm on the outside, heat simmering beneath. Why would anybody shoot Sylveria in the head and then tuck her into my damn closet? The timing stinks. “We have witnesses but no video. She fell out of the closet when the cleaning lady found her,” I say evenly, pointing to Gertrude. She’s sobbing into the chest of a uniform, voice rushing in Spanish, hands cutting frantic arcs through the air.
Caldwell studies me harder this time, suspicion bright in her dark eyes. “I didn’t think you were dumb enough to bury a body on your own property.” Her tone is low, almost a murmur, but sharp enough to slice.
“I’m not.”
“Maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying to look dumb.”
I force myself to remain relaxed. “Not my style.” My watch ticks faintly as I glance at it. Every second drags heavily against me. Whoever’s making a move is doing it hard. Right now.
Ashner pulls a stick of gum from his pocket and slowly unwraps it. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
“Always.” I lean back, shoulders loose. “Before you ask, I have no idea who shot Mrs. Rendale and dumped her in the lobby closet of my building.”
“That would make sense,” Caldwell says, “except the cameras are down.”