Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
It doesn’t matter who you are. Death comes to everyone. I can’t stop it. Time and time again, I’ve learned I can’t save anyone. But I can seek justice for the dead.
It’s the least I can do.
The corners of the room hold a strong chemical scent—harsh, like the cleaning products on the custodial cart outside the door. It burns my nose and clears my head.
But underneath, there’s another scent. Woodsy cologne, just like the dom was wearing last night. The rich scent that matched his deep voice.
I stop that line of thinking. I’m here to work. My life is segmented into strict boxes. I live for my work, and when my cravings get too great, I go to the club for a carefully scripted scene.
The dom blurred the lines. And now, he’s in my head rent-free.
I thought I was safe. I thought the rules would protect me. And he didn’t technically break any rules, yet. . . he shattered me all the same.
I need to focus. There’s a body in front of me. A victim, a man who had once been at the height of his power. In one slice of the killer’s blade, he lost it all.
While I’ve been studying the office, Burgess has been staring at me. He’s a carbon copy of many detectives I’ve known—deep grooves along his nose and mouth and liver spots on his balding head. Aged before his time with the heaviness of someone who’s seen the worst of humanity and knows he will see much more before he dies.
He’s weighing me in the balance and, I’m sure, finding me wanting. First of all, I’m a woman. Second, with my sweater and jeans, brown leather boots, and hair pulled into a ponytail, I look more like a grad student than a profiler with seventeen solved cases under my belt. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. If we’re talking about unofficial cases, my solve record is in the fifties.
Yesterday, I heard Burgess complaining about having to ‘babysit’ me. So, the best way to convince him that I know my stuff? Clearing this case.
I can’t allow my craving for the mystery dom to distract me.
“CEO of Martin Shipping,” I recite what I know so far. “Gregory Martin himself. Grandson of the founder. Raised to run this place. Inherited his position and most of his shares when his father died. Estimated net worth, a hundred million.”
Burgess grunts. “Found by a janitor. According to his assistant, he usually works late. Keeps night hours. Says he gets his best thinking done then.”
“His family didn’t expect him home?”
“He’s got an ex-wife in Florida. One son is in college, another is in boarding school. They see their father on assigned holidays.”
“And now he’s gone forever,” I murmur. Pain squeezes my heart. This is the worst part of a murder for me, imagining the pain of the loved ones left behind. I don’t have to imagine. I know from experience. In one night, my family was taken from me. Gone forever, obliterated from everywhere but my memory.
Burgess shrugs. “They’ll inherit enough money. They’re probably glad he’s dead.”
Fuck this guy. “He had kids,” I say through gritted teeth. “People who loved him.”
“Just another rich fuck,” Burgess mutters, and I round on him.
“He mattered to someone. Rich or poor, we die all the same. But everyone matters.”
Burgess lifts his eyebrows at my passionate defense. I’ve said too much.
“Scene’s ready for you,” the head tech, Diego Silva, calls to us, and I thank the gods for the interruption.
The plastic covering on my boots crackles as I pace forward. For a moment, the room darkens, like I’ve walked through a cloud of black smoke. It’s not real; it’s just my extra sense kicking in. After a moment, it clears, and I lean in to examine the body slumped in the leather chair.
“Time of death is sometime after midnight,” Diego tells us. “But before five a.m. That’s when the custodian came in. He cleaned the floor below this and was going to end his shift with this one. He’s one of only a few staff allowed in here.”
The dead man has his elbows propped on the chair, his forearms in his lap. Under the blood-spattered cuffs are red marks on his wrists. No bruising, more like a braided pattern.
It looks strangely familiar. I squat for a closer look.
“Diego, did you see this? The pattern on his forearms?” The crisp white shirt is crushed where a rope might have pressed into it.
“Yeah, the lead detectives clocked it. I got pictures.”
I pull out my cell and snap a picture of my own, zooming in. “Rope marks,” I murmur. “He was tied to the chair.”
In an instant, I’m back at Club Empire with the mystery dom saying, If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you.
What sort of ties would he use?