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)
What makes this matter worse is this sculpture is identical to a photo taken by our forensic team, which means our data has been compromised. Who the fuck is hacking our system for morbid inspiration? And why leave this in my apartment?
This is personal. The killer knows I’m on their tail. But what’s the meaning behind the sculpture?
Deep down in my gut, I fucking know this has something to do with Hope. She may appear innocent, but I know she has something darker lurking beneath those pretty blue eyes. And I really want to find out what it is.
You’re letting your fixation with her impair your judgment, a more logical part of me says, but I push it away because receiving a glass sculpture as a gift is new. And the only thing I’ve changed in my routine over the last few weeks is following Hope Ivanov.
CHAPTER 9
Hope
He’s back again. It’s been almost two weeks since our last run-in, and I honestly thought he’d gained some common sense about snooping around a killer’s daughter. Alas, here we are. Braxton takes the exact same seat he took the last time he invited himself to join me at the café.
This time, I have an entire pancake left over, and he immediately picks up the fork and starts eating it. I don’t bother telling him to stop because I don’t think he’d listen. I simply purse my lips and stick to the tactic I’ve been using since he re-entered my life—I try my best to ignore him. Even though he’s quiet while scarfing back the last of my breakfast, his presence is loud, screaming at me for attention. I fucking refuse to engage with him.
I scan over to the next page. “Hey!” I yell as he snatches my book from my hands. I’m too slow as he angles himself across from me and begins to read. One of his eyebrows raises curiously, and he glances up at me.
“Thought it would be about glass sculptures,” he says as he lowers the book.
“What?” I quickly snatch it from his grasp.
“Are we playing dumb?” He tsks at me. “Didn’t take you for a dumb person.”
“Thank you?” I roll my eyes. “I can see why you’re so popular with the ladies now.” He smirks and clasps his hands together on top of the table, studying me in a way that pisses me off.
“Did you miss me?” he asks.
“No.” Not to say that I didn’t expect him to show up at any moment. A part of me was relieved when he never did, while the other part was wondering when he would. Because one thing I’m coming to learn about Braxton Hero is that he’s equally as beautiful and persistent as he is stupid and arrogant.
“I would really like to know how you got into my apartment,” he says.
I sigh, frustrated. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
We sit here in a stare-off, and I shake my head in disbelief.
“Whether you want to believe it or not, Detective Hero, you’re the only one of the two of us who is fixated on the other. I don’t have the time or mental space to devote to you. It comes with the territory of running a successful career,” I jab. “I’m certain there are plenty of criminals out there who want to break into your apartment. You aren’t exactly the type to make friends.”
“I seemed friendly enough to entice you into my bed once upon a time,” he says. Heat flushes my cheeks, but I don’t look away, holding my ground.
“To be frank, it was more your appearance that enticed me. And you didn’t talk much that night. You speaking is what ruins it all for me now.”
He smirks, leaning in to study me closer. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sure you’re Daddy’s little girl, and you think no one can touch you.”
I scoff. “Are you done? You’re really grasping at straws if all you can do is antagonize a woman minding her own business, reading a book in a diner, wouldn’t you say?”
“Where were you before this?” he questions.
“Is this an interrogation?” I bite back.
“Just a simple question.”
I don’t want to answer the asshole. And, technically, I don’t have to. But it’s not hard for anyone to piece together my whereabouts at these hours. “I was in my studio, working on that sculpture you broke. Should I be sending a bill to your supervisor and mentioning how you invaded my space unwarranted?”
He should know better than to underestimate someone, especially in his profession.
I’m more than happy to play his game. In fact, I hope when I actually kill him, the experience will be humbling for him. Killing him. It’s not as unsettling as I thought it might be, especially even when sitting across from him. If anything, it makes me feel powerful, almost superior, as if I’m in it for the long game, stalking my prey. Is this how my father and cousins feel when they choose a victim? Or do they just do it without a care for who the person even is?