Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I look and am again surprised. “Mara?” She’s sitting across the table from a woman and they’re rolling dough together. She’s smiling at the woman, and it looks like one of her legs is mid-swing beneath the table. “She can’t be more than fourteen, fifteen.” Which explains the timeline Charlie came up with.
Matthaeus gets up, goes to the door, and instructs a soldier to get Mara. He returns with her a few minutes later.
“What is it?” she asks anxiously.
I turn the screen to show her the photograph. “Do you remember this?”
She walks to the desk, peers down. Her face is a little paler when she looks back up at me.
“That’s Flora,” she says, pointing to the woman sitting across from her. Tears fill her eyes. “She left a few weeks after that day. Just disappeared. Never even said goodbye.”
I watch her, wanting nothing more than to go to her, take her in my arms and tell her it will be all right.
“I think he hurt her,” she adds.
Fuck. I hate this. I hate this so much.
“Do you know this couple?” Matthaeus asks as if sensing my reluctance to bring her any more pain.
“I don’t know them, but she was nice. She let me feel the baby kick.”
“Any idea who she is?”
“Kimberly. It’s what he called her. This man.” She points to Jericho St. James. “I think he was her husband.”
“Was?”
“She died soon after that day.”
“How do you know that?”
“Felix told me when I asked if I’d get to see her and the baby. Kimberly had said I could visit. She thought it was going to be a girl but wasn’t sure.”
Listening to her, I hear how young she is in so many ways. How inexperienced even given what she’s been through. She has been almost sheltered in her captivity and at the same time, so not. Guilt gnaws at my gut. She shouldn’t be here. She should be home. Out of harm’s way. It was selfish of me to bring her.
But I shove those thoughts aside and something else nudges at me. I ask a question I’m not sure I want the answer to.
“Did Felix have anything to do with her death?”
She shifts her gaze to me, and her eyes darken. “I don’t know why you need to ask. He had everything to do with it.”
39
Dante
Jericho St. James is visibly put out when he walks into the living room of the penthouse suite. His hair is ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him before. He’s in jeans and a white button down, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his forearm exposing a full sleeve dragon tattoo on one arm and the tail of a twin dragon creeping out from under the sleeve of the other. Along with his watch I notice a bracelet of worn wooden beads. Prayer beads. The tattoos fit. So does the watch. But that bracelet? Not so much. It’s not his. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.
“Have you come to thank me in person for providing Viktor’s whereabouts?” he asks, drawing my gaze to his face as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Or anxious I don’t bail before giving you Pérez’s location on Saturday night?”
I grin, take out the folded sheet of paper from my pocket, unfolding it and holding it out to him. “I’m here to ask you about this.” It’s the photo Charlie had found.
For a split second, I see the expression of surprise on his face. Of shock, even. His eyes lock on the grainy 8x10 printout. It takes him a moment to school his features but when he shifts his gaze to mine, I see his Adam’s apple work as he swallows. See something in his eyes as he tries to appear indifferent.
“Drink?” he asks, turning to walk toward the sideboard where a decanter of whiskey stands. His posture is stiff, shoulders tight. I wonder if his hands are fisted in his pockets as he crosses the room on wooden legs.
Without waiting for a reply, he pours two glasses of whiskey and carries them to the sitting area. He makes a point of not looking at the picture I’ve set on the coffee table as he hands me one of the tumblers.
“What’s the real reason you want him?” I ask.
He swallows the whiskey and takes the same seat as last time, gesturing to his bodyguard to leave.
“Are you sure?” the man asks.
“It’s fine, Dex,” he says. “Just bring me the bottle before you go.”
I watch him as he finishes his drink. The giant of a man, Dex, sets the decanter on the coffee table before he leaves.
St. James puts his glass down and instead of pouring himself another, he pulls the printed photograph closer and picks it up. I’m not sure I’m imagining the slight tremble of his hand. For a long moment, he studies the printout, his face partially obscured by the paper. He then folds it over, sets it back down and looks at me.