Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
The elevator doors opened, and a familiar face waited on the other side. The dark-haired, dark-eyed gunman from New York. Jay smirked. “I see the earlobe still hasn’t grown back.”
The man bared his yellow teeth. “Follow me.”
Through a formal living room and down a long corridor, Jay’s escort halted at the second door to the last on the right and opened it.
“Leave us, Salvador.” The voice from inside was cool, soft, and way too fucking calm.
Jay’s escalating heart rate heated his blood. His muscles went taut. He stretched his fingers at his sides, breathed deeply through his nose, and walked through the door.
Brown leather wallpaper veneered the walls. Mahogany bookshelves wrapped the huge slab of a desk. Behind it, Roy Oxford sat straight and still. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.” An unnecessary rebellion, but he preferred to look down at Charlee’s abuser.
His black hair was neatly coiffed, smoothed away from his pale face. His shirt buttoned to the collar and pinched with a red tie. Despite his put-together appearance, there was something identifiable in his expression, creasing his eyes and drooping his lips. Seeing his own pain mirrored on Roy’s face would be something to reflect on and savor later.
Roy brushed a nonexistent hair from his face and returned his hand to his lap. “I saw your concert in St. Louis.”
A cringe twitched his shoulders. “You were there?”
“You’re a loyal employee, Mr. Mayard, out there making me money rather than petitioning Human Resources for a bereavement leave.”
Jay forced back the emotion simmering through his chest.
“Your tattoo was a nice touch. Windsor Records has seen a thirty-five percent increase in revenues since the show. I made a shrewd call reinitiating production on your albums.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “She limned that design in her little sketchbook. You must’ve been the musician she was penciling it for.”
She’d drawn it while with Roy? His heart hurtled into his throat, and his hands shook from the ache of it. He shoved them in his jeans pockets. Keep him talking. Get the fucking confession. “I met her the night you killed Noah Winslow. The night you kidnapped her in St. Louis.”
A dim haze passed over Roy’s eyes, and his fingers circled over a thick bundle of papers on his desk. “You don’t fool me, Mr. Mayard.”
Ice raced down his spine. He blanked his face and cocked his head.
“You walk in here with your shoulders back and purpose in your step, but in truth, you’re crawling on your belly, wallowing in your delusions of purpose. It’s only a matter of time before all the what-ifs and should’ve-beens lure you in and smother you.” Roy’s gaze turned inward, and his hand stroked the papers, back and forth.
A burn tunneled through his sinuses. Why hadn’t he snuck the damn gun in? Fuck the confession. He could’ve ended this with a trigger pull. He steeled his legs, his words powered with impatience. “You enslaved her twice. Raped her repeatedly. Your third attempt killed her.”
Roy hardened his glare. “As long as we live, she will haunt us with her burning eyes.” A tremble rippled through his fingers. He yanked them to his lap, looked up. “I considered the prospect that she’d escaped the fire, impossible as it was, and anticipated you falsifying her death.” He thinned his lips. “I see the romanticism in that now. Your eyes are weighted with reality.”
A buzz ignited in Jay’s head. He’d shared that hope, but it had crumbled when her remains were excavated. He slapped those thoughts away before they suffocated him, replaced them with the reason he was there. “You might as well have set that fire yourself. You killed her.”
Roy straightened his back and leveled his gaze. “Mr. Mayard, I am a very wealthy man. I own the largest enterprise in the world, homes on every continent, private jets, and more money than you could aspire to earn in multiple lifetimes. As you are aware, since I invested in your band’s label, I do not back losing schemes. It is unfortunate my most important asset—one you had temporary possession of—was lost in that fire.” He opened a desk drawer and placed a revolver beside the papers, barrel aimed at the chair Jay stood behind. “Have a seat.”
Resolution descended over him, pulling him toward the imminent outcome. Charlee was gone. Looking down the barrel of Roy’s gun would be numbing. If the hammer came down, the audio recording would capture Jay’s death. He moved around the chair and sat, chin raised and spine braced.
With one hand stroking the gun’s grip, Roy collected two glasses from the side cabinet and set them on the desk. He poured a finger of amber liquid in each and scooted one to Jay. “I nurtured her, pleasured her, and made her what she was. Tell me. What could you have possibly offered her?”