Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“Dead?”
“I’d say so.” He steps aside, giving me a direct view of the body sprawled out on the dirty linoleum floor, a kitchen knife sticking out of his chest, buried to the hilt.
“She got him good,” I hiss.
“I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” He shakes his head.
“What do you want to do?”
Scrubbing a hand across his jaw, he says, “Nothing to do. It’s domestic.”
Motioning to the leather cut clutched in Tim’s fist, I ask, “Should we take that?”
Callan drops to his haunches and lifts Tim’s arm, prying the leather from his hand. “Not proud to think it, but this could be a good thing for us—for Kit,” he says, reading my mind. “Where’s the girl?”
“In the bedroom.”
You can walk through this entire apartment in about six strides, yet the one second it takes me to leave the kitchen, the little killer is able to dart from the bedroom out the front door, evading me.
Giving chase, I make it to the road before Callan shouts, “Let her fucking go. She’s not our problem.” He’s by my side in the next breath, watching the girl sprint away from the crime scene, her feet bare, hair flying behind her. “She’s fast.”
“You think she loved him?” I find myself asking.
Grunting, he says, “Don’t they usually kill their lover then themselves if that’s the case? It doesn’t look like she wants to die.”
Callan pulls open the back door of the SUV and tosses the prospect’s cut onto the seat. We both climb in, the girl now a dot in the rearview mirror.
I open the laptop. The tattooer’s face butting up against her boyfriend fills the screen. “It can be domestic.”
“What?” Callan asks, kicking the engine over.
Turning the laptop to show him the image, I repeat, “We stage it so it looks like a murder suicide. We’ll go after dark, wait until they’re sleeping, and get it done.”
Silence fills the car, then a simple, “Okay.”
CHAPTER 10
CASUALTIES
CUTTER
Just past three in the morning we ease our bikes into the back alley of a bathroom factory a couple blocks from the tattoo shop and dismount, rolling the machines onto their kickstands. I take off my cut and hand it to Callan. He opens his saddlebag and folds them inside, leaving us in hooded sweatshirts and black slacks. Adrenaline bubbles in my veins.
“Let’s go,” Callan demands, taking off at a light jog.
I follow close behind, sweat coating my skin, my hair soaking beneath the hood. There’s not a single gust of wind offering relief from the summer heat cooking us alive.
Coming to a stop, Callan points to a window. “It’s that apartment.” Concrete stairs lead to a standard front door. There are no lights on from what I can tell at this angle.
“You ready?” I ask, pulling on gloves. My skin tingles. My mouth goes dry. I feel like I’m on drugs. There’s always a high that comes with taking a life—and this time is no different.
“Ready.”
The sky’s dark and silent cloak is fitting for the backdrop of the sinister plan that’s about to unfold. I’d known Callan nearly my whole damn life. I can tell when shit bothers him. He didn’t like this fate for these people. He steels himself against his inner turmoil, taking the lead, marching toward the apartment with determination set squarely upon his face. He takes the stairs two at a time. This is to protect Kit. I’d kill a thousand innocent people if it meant she was safe. So would he.
Dropping to one knee, he slips on his own gloves and looks through the letterbox before surveying our surroundings, making sure we’re alone. I do the same, coming up behind him.
His arm disappears inside the small rectangular hole then the door gives with a soft click. Pulling his arm back, he shakes his head at how reckless people are with their own safety. They make it too easy.
With one last check over his shoulder, he pushes the door open and we enter the residence of Wynona Knight.
Thirty-two.
Unmarried.
No family outside of a distant aunt who posts “Happy Birthday!” once a year on her social media account.
In debt and on the cusp of losing her shop.
And Eric York.
Thirty-eight.
Unmarried.
Mother in an old folks’ home. Brother serving time for a drug offense.
No social media presence but a criminal record for a violent offense and a bank balance in the negatives.
The carpeted hall dulls the sounds of our footsteps creeping through the apartment. We come to a living area consisting of a couch, a small TV, and a coffee table with a goldfish swimming around in a bowl.
Callan holds up a finger, motioning to the open kitchen.
Nodding in understanding, I take slow, measured steps across the tiled floor, surveying the countertops and then opening the drawers one after another until I find what I’m looking for. Motive. I hold up the pile of bank statements and debt collector notices for evidence and lay them on the counter, signaling for Callan to proceed to the bedroom with me bringing up the rear.