Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
It’s just one detective, right? It can’t be that hard, and if I do fuck up, which I won’t, then at least I know I can depend on my cousins to help me.
Hawke receives a message, and his eyebrows furrow. Whatever business Ford has himself involved with it’s not good. Even if I did have an answer for Hawke, I don’t think he’d hear me right now.
“Go Hawke. Something’s wrong, right?” I say. My cousins are always involved in shenanigans. Not the good kind and often leaving a trail of bodies behind them, but one thing is for certain—they’re always together.
“We’re not done with this, little red. I’ll teach you how to shoot, okay?” he says, pulling his keys out of his pocket and racing down the hallway. I hear him call out from the door. “Close up when you leave!”
I pick at my plate of food. Looking down at the small cat, who stares up at me as if knowing.
I wonder if this was a mistake. Sure, I’m pissed at Braxton, but is killing a police officer the answer?
My gut tells me yes.
Always yes to protect myself and family.
But maybe I’m in over my head on this one.
CHAPTER 8
Braxton
I’m exhausted. The cases keep piling up with this serial killer. Two nights ago it was a man on the outskirts of town: no cameras or witnesses. The guy’s phone and wallet were missing, and even when we tracked his digital prints, there was no indication as to who he might have been meeting out near the bridge where he was drowned or why.
Had the killer left his body in the river, it would have floated downstream and not been found for days, if at all. But they’d had the balls to pull him back out and leave him on the riverbank.
It doesn’t make sense. Whoever this person is, it’s like they’re almost screaming to be caught. Or they’ve become so arrogant that they don’t even care about gloating to the police. Worse, it’s creating too much paperwork.
The only reason we assume it’s the same killer is because of the victim. He was reported two days ago to authorities for harassing a woman in her mid-twenties. The man got off on the charges with the right lawyers involved.
Someone certainly thinks of themselves as a hero, which makes them the deadliest kind of vigilante.
I look down at my phone, at the photos taken from today by the man I hired to trail Hope Ivanov. I haven’t had a chance to see her all day, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been tracking her every move. Photos come through of her at the airport, coming off her family’s private plane. She was in Rome for less than forty-eight hours, and now she’s back in town. Keeping tabs on how often she’s here is the tricky part. I’ve downloaded her schedule of international shows, but it’s not a bulletproof schedule to track.
I haven’t yet expressed to my partner, Lucas, my interest in the Ivanov daughter until I know what I want to do with her. For now all I can do is watch.
Walking into my studio apartment, I throw my car keys on the counter and then remove my gun and store it safely. I start to undress, pulling my shirt over my head first. Then, I pause in the middle of the room.
Something feels off. And it’s glaringly obvious. A black box sits at the end of my bed. I silently search the apartment. Intuitively, I know no one else is in my home, but I have a top-of-the-line security system, so how the fuck did someone break in without setting off the alarms?
I pull out my phone and bring up the security cameras to find they were all down for precisely twenty-four minutes. Who the fuck was in my apartment, and how did they know how to disable my security cameras?
I eye the box. I know I should call it in. It could be a bomb, for fuck’s sake, yet unfortunately, curiosity has always been a weakness of mine.
I lift the lid to reveal something reflective. Glass? I pull out the sculpture, appreciating its exquisite detail. What the fuck? It’s a replica of a crime scene image from the club where the man was poisoned weeks ago. The detail is uncanny. There’s no message or further tidbit in the box.
My jaw clenches as a set of innocent blue eyes come to mind. Is it hyper fixation, or is my gut telling me something? I know Hope does sculptures in clay and not glass, but for some reason, I just feel like this is somehow connected with her. Everything keeps coming back to her, but I’m certain it’s more to do with personal intrigue than anything. Her family is woven through the underworld, and I’m hellbent on making her confess her sins. Catching someone like Hope Ivanov is like drawing out the rest of the hornets’ nest. This goes beyond simply a serial killer, and that’s my lead in.