Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"Food items?"
"You know, banana peels, coffee grounds, leftovers, eggshells—"
"No," I interrupted. "I don't need all that. Just items like this. When will you have the rest of the bags done?"
"I can put someone on it today, if you think it'd be important."
"Yes. Please send me all of the reports as they are done. As soon as possible."
"I'll pull someone off another project and get it to you quickly."
"Thanks." I hung up the phone and looked at the list again. I flipped to the image with her credit card statement. It felt ridiculously invasive, spying on her spending habits, and it was wild how much of her life could be exposed by her trash. I spun in my chair and looked at the silver can that sat a few feet away, under my desk. Wonder how much of my life could be told through its contents. I made a mental note to invest in a shredder. And a trash compactor, if those were still in existence.
I looked back at the credit card statement and tried, between the purchases and the trash, to find an opening, an opportunity. Something to exploit and use. Something to take her down with.
The P.I. didn’t waste time, and sent me four more emails that afternoon, each with a different trash bag inventory from Molly Jenkins’ house. Trash pickups at her house were weekly, so unless she missed a pickup, this was a week’s worth of garbage.
Amidst the unimportant items, there was more alcohol. I counted six full-size liquor bottles and thirty empty beer cans. If it was all hers, she was an alcoholic—at least by my standards. If she’d had friends over, it was the normal evidence of a party. She was in college, so a party was likely. I sighed, then perked up at the other attachment in his new emails. A bank account statement. I put it side by side with her credit card one and compared notes.
According to the printouts, she frequented The Ginger Break. Had been there five times in the last month, four times on a Wednesday, once on a Friday. A Google search told me that The Ginger Break was a bar a block from her apartment. Another search told me that Tuesday was $5 Martini Night.
I clicked my pen into action and examined my calendar. Tuesday was three days away. Doable. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. Pulling scattered thoughts together, I came up with a semblance of a plan.
First step: Find bait.
Second step: Sequester Lee.
Third step: Watch and enjoy.
Chapter 32
I looked over a pomegranate martini into a pair of deep blue eyes. The modeling agency had chosen well. Marcus’s brow furrowed in a way that was gorgeously masculine. His eyes were intelligent, but compassionate. His dark navy suit was tailored and fit his strong athletic build perfectly. He looked like the sort that rescued kittens from trees after listening to your problems. His mouth was full and twitched when he smiled. After delivering the lost kitten, I bet he’d carry you to bed and fuck away any concerns. He set down his beer and studied me. "Why are you doing this?"
I shrugged. “I have my reasons.”
He leaned across the high two-top table and lowered his voice. “You seem a little old to be playing games with some adolescent." He tilted his head down to the restaurant’s lower layer, where Molly was seated at the bar, reading a thick paperback novel. We were in the upper level of The Ginger Break and had spent the last fifteen minutes getting acquainted and going over the job.
I met his gaze. It was direct, so much so that it ate holes in the dark parts of my soul. A little old to be playing games. Yes, Compared to Molly, I was ancient. "Let’s go back over the plan."
Marcus sighed, leaned back and stretched his arms out, regarding me with a bored stare. "I know the plan. You go down there, then I go down there. We drink, you leave. More drinks, we leave. I take her home, fuck her eight ways to Sunday, then head on my merry little way."
I shifted, and the knot of guilt in my stomach tightened. "Yes."
He leaned forward, his knee bumping mine, and gently touched the top of my hand. "You know, you have nothing to worry about with her."
I moved my hand away and picked up my martini. "In what way?"
“You're a beautiful, sexy woman. She..." He glanced down at the blonde head that all of this was about. "She's a girl. She can't compete." He leaned closer and winked.
I glared at him with the frostiest look I had. "I didn't hire you to fuck me, Marcus. I'm in a relationship. Taken."
He chuckled softly. "Forgive me, Layana, but you’re here. You don't look taken to me."