Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
When I’d opened my mouth to say something, he’d pointed to where I could leave the hot chocolate and told me to fuck off back to the kitchen. That was the one and only time I made an effort with him.
So, Ethan hated his father. He won’t mourn him in death. Maybe what he feels is relief. But this isn’t what’s nagging at me.
Seeing the ring on Ethan’s finger threw me. Why though? I’ve always hated that ring. Always. When I was little, it scared me. I guess it symbolized Sly’s true nature. The sharp, pointed ears, those red eyes—cunning, cruel eyes.
It’s not that, though. It’s that Ethan has it. But why would that be strange? Sly always made a big deal of his son getting that ring when he was cold in his grave, saying the words his son loud enough that I’d hear. That I’d get it. I think it bothered him to no end that I didn’t give a fuck. That I never wanted to be his. Hell, the opposite was true.
Did he have it on when I went to see him? There were a few occasions he’d forget to wear it. Very few but still, it did happen.
Whoever killed him looked him right in the eye and did it.
Whoever pulled that trigger came with a single-minded purpose.
He came to kill.
I think back to my meeting with Sly. Was he drunk? Drinking, yes, but not drunk. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him drunk. He’d had his back to me while standing at the window. He was worried about losing it all to me. Maybe he’d come to some realization that that was happening. He asked about those people on the street. And when he turned around to face me, he had the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, and I remember the soft clink of the ring against the crystal.
Sly was wearing the ring that night.
I pull on the steering wheel and swerve to the shoulder to the sound of horns blaring in anger. Tires screech to brake and avoid collision as I cross two lanes to do it. Someone flips me off as they drive past, yelling something out their window. I don’t bother with them as I take out my phone and find the email Nigella sent containing the police files. I scroll to the one listing Sly’s personal items logged by the morgue and skim to the valuables. His watch, a Rolex worth thousands. A thin gold chain with a crucifix hanging from it. Hypocrite. His wedding band. That’s it. I skim all the pages of the report. No fox ring. Could they have missed it? No. No way.
I find the email with the video footage of the man in the garage. I don’t look at him so much as where he’s going. He’s heading to the ramp cars would use to exit, not the door where the camera would capture his image. It’s where he disappears from view, right out of reach of the camera.
I play it again, zooming in, but the image just gets grainier. I focus on the hand at his side. He’s not wearing a glove, though he could have taken it off after shooting Fox. But again, all I see are pixels.
“Shit.”
I dial Nigella. She answers, sounding annoyed. “Silas. If you tell me you’re making your one phone call from jail again, I swear—”
“I need you to get that security footage cleaned up as much as you can.”
“What?”
“The man leaving the building. I want to see his hand.”
“His hand? Why?”
“Just do it. How soon can you get it?”
“I’m not sure I can, but I’ll make a call in the morning.”
“Now. Make the call now.”
“Everything okay, Silas?”
“I don’t know. Just get it to me. Fast.”
“Okay.”
I disconnect and push my hand into my hair, thinking. I remember telling Ophelia Ethan didn’t have the stomach for murder, but does he? Would he? Did Sly push him far enough and then, when he lost Ophelia, literally lost her when I rammed my SUV into their car, what happened? How did Sly react? Would he have pushed Ethan to the brink?
My phone rings, and for a second, I think it might be Nigella already, but I know it can’t be that. I see it’s Horatio. I pick up.
“Horatio?”
“Silas. Just got off the phone with Phee. She’s worried you’re going to do something stupid.”
“Not stupid. Just overdue. When did you talk to her?”
“Just now.” I want to ask how since I took the phone, but he continues. “I need to talk to you.”
“You got me, so talk.”
“In person. Where are you?”
I look around. “Driving.” I give him the name of the cross street.
“There’s a bar near there. Hole in the wall. It’s called Eddie’s Corner. Can you get there?”
I type in the name and look at Google maps. “Yeah. It’s about ten minutes’ drive. What’s this about?”