Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 152(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 152(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
“Well?”
I hate this bitch. “I’m at work—the legal kind—so I’ll make this quick. I’ve made contact with…him.” Even saying his name out loud to her feels disloyal. Although, when did I become loyal to him? “We have plans to see each other again—”
“Excuse me?” she laughs. “Try again. Tell me the real story.”
My nose wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
“Do you really expect me to believe you simply ‘made contact’ with one of the deadliest…” she trails off, clearing her throat. “That you met him so easily? He doesn’t people very well. One does not simply strike up a conversation with him.”
“Well, I did.”
And we took a bath.
And he licked me. Everywhere.
“What color are his eyes, then?”
“Ice blue. Like a glacier.”
There’s a pause. “Lucky guess. Name some other defining traits.”
I take a deep breath and hit launch. “There are tattoos all over his body. Chest, neck, back, both arms. Throat, even, with a red heart over his Adam’s apple. Shaved head, but his hair is beginning to grow in black. He’s extremely surly. He called me an idiot. Then he called me Michael Phelps.” Why am I smiling against the phone’s receiver? “He’s intense. Private. But he’s also…curious. And kind of confused about why he wants me around. I’m confused about it, too.”
The silence on the other end of the line is thick. “Holy shit, you really did make contact with him. How did you do it?”
Easy, I nearly drowned. “I have my ways.”
“This man rarely has face-to-face contact with anyone. If you see him, odds are you’re…about to have a terrible day. Even I have been communicating with him via messages in a social security box for years.”
If I didn’t already have a strong feeling Koen does something very bad for a living…I do now. “I might have made his acquaintance, but I don’t think I’ll be able to persuade him to go back to work for you.”
“Your family being burned alive isn’t enough incentive?”
My blood freezes. “Please don’t do that,” I beg, my voice wobbling.
“Six days,” she purrs, hanging up.
My fingers are so numb, I can barely manage to put the phone back in the cradle. The office is still as death around me, but I’ve been in bad situations before. Perhaps not this bad. Still, I put in my headphones and get the hell on with my responsibilities.
That’s what women do.
And that’s what I do.
Koen
I only allowed her to leave my home so I could follow her.
There is nothing among her possessions to identify her. No phone or wallet. No clues about who she is or where she came from. And so, I let her go to work, hoping to learn what I need to know.
Which is fucking everything. I need to know everything.
I’m sitting in the front seat of my nondescript SUV, my eyes fastened on the entrance to the building Meg disappeared into moments earlier.
Carrying cleaning supplies.
My girl is a cleaner.
I’d been attempting to write a happy song with my violin, because for some disturbing reason, I am desperate to fulfil this silly request, but ever since she walked past my SUV with a caddy of chemicals and rags, humming to whatever music is playing in her headphones, the instrument has sat paralyzed in my lap. I should not have allowed her to leave my house, because now she is cleaning up after inferior people who should be kissing the ground on which she walks.
Now, I want to smash the windows of my vehicle.
It’s hard to compose a song while filled with rage.
Focus. I’m renowned for my cold, calculating calm, yet it is deserting me now. I’m personally involved here. That’s the difference. Normally, my jobs are filled with anonymous faces and locations I’ll never return to twice. No part of my job has ever felt real to me. Not until my most recent job.
That’s why I’m done.
I’ll never go back.
An image of an elderly woman’s lined face twisted with grief, her body draped and sobbing over a freshly deceased body, threatens to choke me.
How did I let that happen?
How did I not know?
I’m drawn sharply from my thoughts when a white Porsche pulls into the parking lot. It’s the only other car besides mine, because Meg took the bus. She took the bus. With cleaning supplies. As soon as I find out her full identity, she’s never working another day in her life. I suppose I could have simply asked for her last name and run the background check, but old habits die hard. I’m accustomed to only believing what I can see on a screen or written in black and white. Humans are faulty. Humans lie.
Now that I know the name of the office building she cleans, I’ll be in contact with their cleaning service to get Meg’s information. The right amount of money—or threats—will have me her social security number by morning.