Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“What the fuck did you just say?” Giovanni sputtered. “Stay out of this, Dreg! Who even let you in here?”
Flashing him a smile, I mimed zipping my lips.
“Gio, this is stupid.” Annika ripped her wallet out of her bag. “Just try my card.”
Maurice accepted it and left.
“Everything is under control, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Shaw called. “Please, enjoy your meals.”
Maurice came back with a card, receipt, and a self-satisfied smile. “Thank you, madam, the bill is paid. I apologize for the trouble. Please, allow me to gift you those chocolate strawberries free of charge.”
I, and everyone in the restaurant, noted Maurice’s graciousness in the face of the reddening jackass.
“Oops,” I said under my breath. “Next time put a dead bug on your plate.”
Katie heard me and snorted a laugh.
“Thank you, Maurice.” Annika wasn’t too impressed with her boyfriend either. She pushed him firmly back into his seat. “What is wrong with you?” I heard her hiss. “You humiliated me, and for what? This isn’t the first time you’ve overdrawn your account.”
“I didn’t overdraw shit. Look.” Giovanni jabbed on his phone. “There’s enough in there to buy this dump. I’m telling you... the reader is... broken...” He trailed off, olive skin flushed sickly yellow under the fluorescent lights.
“What?”
“My money,” he rasped. “Where’s my money?”
“I see, I knew you—”
“Shut up for a fucking minute! It’s gone!” Giovanni snagged the tablecloth jumping up. It ripped off, showering the floor in smashed china, crystal, and butter rolls. “A quarter of a million dollars! Where the hell is my money?”
“Gio, calm down.”
He didn’t hear or he didn’t care. Giovanni stormed out of the restaurant, barking into the phone before he hit the door. Annika ran to catch up to him.
“Mom? Mom! What’s going on!”
Reclining in my seat, I poured myself a glass of champagne, raising it in the air. “Maurice, let’s get a round of champagne for the house—make up for that appetite-ruining scene.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
“Except for that table,” I said, pointing to Saylor’s. “They’re underage.”
An hour later, I stumbled into the Gallery, giggling on too much bubbly juice. Every time I tried to think sober thoughts, Giovanni’s face as he read triple zeros on his screen flashed in my mind and set me off.
The house was quiet. I stuck my head in the living room.
No one.
My next stop was the kitchen.
Wilder looked up from a plate of chicken and roasted veggies. His neutral expression washed away in an instant.
“What do you want?”
“Your disinfectant spray, friend. Because you’re about to get hugged.”
Wilder dropped his attention to his food, spearing a carrot. “I take it you got my text.”
“Got your text and then went to Toussaint’s where I got to see the beautiful moment live in 3D. The look on his face was priceless. Wilder, you’re amazing.”
He grunted. “I do not require praise or physical affection. Emptying their bank accounts was part of the plan. I held up my end.”
“You’re still getting a hug.” I hopped up on the stool beside him. “When there aren’t two of you.”
“Here.” His long, built arm reached the fridge from his seat. He plopped a water bottle in front of me. “Drink.”
“Thank you.” We fell silent while I downed half the bottle. That’s the only reason there was silence, because I had plenty to say. “It’s only Tuesday, and it’s the best week I’ve had since I stepped inside this hellmouth they call a college campus. I’ll replay Giovanni’s crying for his mommy over and over again in my dreams. Now that’s the making of an O cocktail.”
“O cocktail,” Wilder repeated slowly. He picked up his plate, edging off the stool. “Good night, Sinclair. Don’t touch anything. I’ll know.”
“Wait.” I leaped over the table and snagged his sleeve. “On the drive, I was thinking about the SB3A virus. Why would the government create something so horrifying?”
Wilder stilled.
“Made to appear like the common cold. Did they do it so people would snuggle up in bed, convinced all they need is rest and tea, giving the virus all the time it needs to rip through their system?”
“Yes,” he replied, eyes big. “Exactly.”
“It’s as genius as it is evil. Which is why the person who created it gets the title. But why wasn’t that guy locked up instead of given millions in funding?”
“Biological warfare.” Wilder reclaimed his seat, propping his forearms on the table. “There’s an underground facility with hundreds of man-made viruses like SB3A. Each one deadlier than the last.”
“But SB3A got out.”
“It was stolen,” Wilder corrected. “I suspect by a disloyal employee looking to sell the virus to an overseas enemy government. I have two monitors devoted to tracking him down, but the guy’s a ghost. He had an expert erase his online presence.”
I wasn’t counting, but I was pretty sure this conversation topped the most words Wilder said to me combined, and that included his rant that I was a North Korea sleeper agent.