Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He bolts for the door. I follow, just in time to see the Uber—a silver Honda—pulling away from the curb. Vinnie jogs up beside it, waving his hands. The driver brakes, rolling down the window. He’s a middle-aged guy with tired eyes.
Vinnie leans in. “Hey, sorry to bother you. The girl you just dropped off—who paid for that ride?”
The driver shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Some guy named”—he checks his phone—“Daniel R. Ordered it through the app. Paid extra for priority pickup.”
“You remember what he looked like?”
The driver frowns. “Didn’t see him in person. Just a voice on the phone. Sounded older. Smooth. Kind of formal, if that makes sense. He said to make sure the girl got home safe and to text him when she did.”
“Did you text him?”
“Of course. He tipped me fifty bucks.”
Vinnie slips him another hundred. “If he calls or texts again, you let me know. Immediately.”
The man nods quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Vinnie thanks him and walks back, pocketing the driver’s number. “Daniel R,” he mutters. “Whoever that is, I owe him.”
“Owe him what?”
“A shit ton of money,” Vinnie says, “or a bullet. Depends on which side he’s on.”
We go back inside. Belinda’s sipping cocoa Raven must have made while we were out. Her hands are trembling, but she’s calmer now, her voice steady as she answers Raven’s gentle questions. I can tell Vinnie wants to stay, to hover, to make sure she doesn’t disappear again. But my mind is already moving, fast and cold.
Reyes. Chef. Daniel R.
Too many moving pieces.
I pull out my laptop and set it on the table. “Belinda,” I say carefully. “Can you think really hard and describe the house where they kept you? Anything that stood out? Paint color, smell, furniture, anything.”
She chews on her lip. “It was kind of yellow on the outside, I think. But the paint was peeling. And there was this big window with a curtain that had holes in it. The floor creaked a lot. And there was a swing set outside, but one of the swings was missing.”
“Got it,” I say, typing as she speaks. “Anything else?”
She closes her eyes and wrinkles of focused thought thread across her forehead. “Trees. A lot of them. But no neighbors. Just woods.”
That’s enough to go on. I start cross-referencing the details with every property in Reyes’s name within a hundred-mile radius. There are more than I expected—safehouses, rentals, fake names tied to shell companies. But then one address jumps out at me.
A small single-family property about an hour north of where Daniela’s phone last pinged before she went dark. It fits everything—woods, isolation, age, layout.
I switch to Street View. The screen fills with the image of a sagging old house, two stories tall, its yellow paint faded almost white.
“Belinda,” I say, turning the screen toward her. “Is this it?”
Her breath catches. “Yes,” she whispers. “That’s where I was.”
Vinnie exhales slowly, rubbing his forehead. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I don’t wait. I’m already grabbing my keys.
“Hawk,” Vinnie warns. “Wait.”
“I’m not waiting,” I snap. “You said it yourself. She’s barely back, which means Dani just got there. If I leave now, I can make it before—”
“Before what?” he cuts in. “Before he kills her? You don’t even know what’s waiting for you out there. Reyes could have ten men on site. Or worse.”
“Then I’ll take ten guns,” I growl. “I’m not sitting around while she’s—” I can’t finish the sentence. My throat locks.
Vinnie’s expression softens. “Hawk, listen. I get it. I do. But she went there for Belinda. Belinda’s safe now. Dani did what she went there to do. If you go storming in without a plan, she dies for nothing.”
I look at him, jaw tight. “Are you going to stop me?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The silence between us is answer enough.
I shove past him, out the door.
38
DANIELA
I swallow hard. My pulse hammers so loud it could rattle the china.
The fifth candle—the one that isn’t a candle at all—sits at the far end of the table like a ticking time bomb. Which, of course, it is.
Five courses.
Five candles.
He’s going to light it after the fifth course. That’s the plan. His grand finale.
A murder-suicide wrapped in linen and candlelight.
Romeo and Juliet, he’d probably call it. But I know better. He isn’t dying for love. He’s dying for control.
I keep my face neutral, hands folded in my lap. The only movement I allow is the smallest brush of my palm against my thigh—just to feel it.
Still there.
The knife.
The sapphire handle presses cool and comforting against my skin. I didn’t come here unarmed. No one patted me down. No one even thought to.
Sometimes it pays to be underestimated.
He moves around the table now, the air shifting with his motion. The way he carries himself is exactly how I remember—precise and unhurried.
“Patience,” Chef murmurs, almost to himself. “Great meals teach patience.”