Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Oliver,” I call out, deciding it’s better to announce myself, just in case. If someone’s here to kill him, I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.
Nobody responds.
I creep forward, going too slowly. This crap all over the place makes it hard to clear each room. I have to take my time, cursing all the terrible blind spots and hiding places. I reach the back patio, and that’s when the smell hits me.
The stench of blood and shit.
I tighten my grip on the gun and creep to the sliding door. Through the glass, I see him slumped to the side in his favorite chair.
The ground’s stained red. A thick, sticky pool.
My heart rate doubles. All the hairs on my neck stand straight on end.
I push open the door, gun ready.
Nothing moves.
I keep out, stepping over the blood. I keep Oliver in my peripheral as I make sure nobody’s out here waiting for me, but the place is empty.
I turn to him.
Oliver’s throat is cut. Somehow, I knew that’s what I’d find. It’s sliced clean through, professional and efficient.
But this is different.
His mouth is hanging open. His jaw is broken, snapped down wide.
And his tongue is missing.
“Fucking Oliver,” I murmur softly. His face is locked in a permanent scream. His eyes are unfocused, and the terror of his last moment is clear in his expression.
This happened recently. Within the last hour, I’d guess. He’s still slightly warm, and decomposition hasn’t started yet. No flies or bugs nearby.
I’m about to get the fuck out of there when I notice something clutched in his hand. It’s tucked between two fingers.
A piece of paper on thick cardstock with my name on the front.
Heart hammering, I pull it away from his dead grip.
Seamus, he deserved worse. I made it fast. If you want to speak with me, come to Brighton Beach tomorrow. Molchanie.
Under the name is an address.
I read it over three times before shoving the note in my pocket.
Oliver died because of me.
And Molchanie knew I was coming here. They beat me to him, probably by an hour at most. This whole spectacle was left here as a message.
And now they want to talk.
I race back through Oliver’s house, pausing only to grab the scarves. Cops will show up eventually, and I don’t want questions. I throw myself into my car and race back to Alina’s apartment. I try calling, but she doesn’t answer. I’m cursing, pissed like crazy and worried. I park out front, not caring if it gets towed, and sprint into the lobby. The elevator’s painfully slow, and I’m losing my mind by the time I finally make it to our front door.
I burst through, gun ready.
Only to be met with music.
Loud, blasting music.
And Alina in the kitchen, humming to herself, mopping the floor and dancing.
I stare, my heart slamming in my throat. I was so worried she’d be hurt. But here she is, wiggling and smiling, having a good time.
“Alina,” I call over the music before striding over to the speaker. I turn it off, and she spins around, pouting.
“Hey! I was enjoying that.”
I storm over, pull her into my arms, and kiss her hard.
She seems surprised but doesn’t fight it. I kiss her and keep her there, feeling the warmth of her, so relieved that she’s okay it’s almost painful.
“What was that for?” she asks, a little breathless when I finally let her go. “Is my cleaning kink starting to rub off on you too?”
“No, that’s not it. Actually, a little bit, but that’s not what this is about.” I kiss her again, trying to make myself calm down. “Stay here, okay? I need to sweep the apartment.”
She finally seems to notice my worry. “What’s wrong?”
“Just stay here.”
I slip away and keep my gun at the ready as I go from room to room. I’m extremely slow and methodical about it. When I’m satisfied there’s nobody lurking nearby, I finally put my gun down on the counter, still within reach.
I slump into a chair at the kitchen table. Alina sits beside me, rubbing my back. “What’s going on?”
“I went to speak with that contact I mentioned.”
“The one who wanted the scarves? Oliver, right? He comes into the shop sometimes.”
“He’s dead.” I stare at her grimly and place the note down on the table. “And I found this in his hand.”
She’s shaking as she reads it. Her face turns pale. “Is this real?”
“It’s real,” I confirm.
Her eyes meet mine. I see my own horror reflected in hers.
“It’s the same handwriting,” she whispers.
Chapter 21
Seamus
Ipark outside of an old, abandoned sporting goods store in the middle of a quiet strip mall. I cut across the bridge and follow the Belt Parkway to Brighton Beach. It’s nearly three in the morning, and the area is dead. I leave the engine running, since I figure Molchanie knows I’m here already, and let the heat blast from the air vents for another few seconds. I hold my fingers in the warm air before checking to make sure my gun’s loaded.