Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
I didn’t know what her angle was, and it didn’t matter.
Her family was my biggest client, and I wasn’t going to fuck up my job for any woman, not even one as sweet as her.
Mitchell sauntered back in. His beefy body in that small gym top gave the appearance of trying to stuff my fat cock into a normal-sized condom.
“Ready?” He raised his fist for another pump.
I ignored it, once again, sauntering toward the ropes.
“Always.”
Hours later, I was standing in Cat’s living room or whatever the fuck you wanted to call the small, dingy rathole she used to occupy.
Mrs. Masterson gave me the key, but not before feeding me a questionable apple pie and sweetened iced tea that tasted suspiciously like the store-bought Costco brand.
Cat’s house was about the size of my spare room back in Boston. Most of her furniture was hand-me-downs and crap you’d drag from a street corner’s curb. Her bathroom cabinet had enough prescription drugs to restock a fucking pharmacy. The house exhibited all the usual signs of a shitty life: plastic bags full of useless things strewn everywhere, outstanding bills pinned to a board, half-full beer cans scattered about, and a bunch of used condoms in her bedroom’s trash can.
She died a hooker. It probably should have saddened me, but it didn’t. She lost all pity privileges when she made me an alcoholic and cocaine user before I knew how to wipe my own ass properly.
I rolled up my sleeves and got to work immediately, peeling wallpaper to see if there was something interesting hiding behind it, sifting through the hoarder-type garbage, and opening every cabinet and drawer in the damn place. I flipped the house upside down, even yanked out the leaking faucet from its place, but for the life of me I couldn’t find that thing Mrs. Masterson was talking about that would make it worth my while to visit.
I knew asking the old hag was pointless. She’d just shove more half-frozen apple pie down my throat and tell me Cat wanted me to find it for myself.
You could always count on Cat to make things harder for me, even from the fucking grave.
Usually, I was good at extracting information in not-so-nice ways, but even I had my limits, and I drew them at physically attacking eighty-five-year-old women who were half deaf and possibly fully blind.
I decided to call Sparrow, whom I considered my de facto mother. True, she hadn’t pushed me out of her vagina, but she sure as shit was there to get me out of trouble while I was at school. She fed me, fought my battles, and celebrated my wins.
She loved me more fiercely than any mother would her child, but the damage had been done. My soul was broken, my eyes were open, and my heart was frozen.
“What’s up, Sam?” Sparrow asked on the other line. I could practically imagine her rolling dough in the kitchen, red hair snaking everywhere like medusa, an apron with a witty phrase wrapped around her waist—which was still boyish and slender.
“Sparrow. I’m at Cat’s place in Georgia. She died of an overdose.”
“Troy said,” she answered quietly, and I could sense she was about to launch into her condolences, so I talked fast.
“I think there’s something here I should see, but I’m not sure where to find it.”
I was good at raiding places, but I usually found weapons under the mattresses and between cracks. Cat’s secrets, wherever they were, weren’t anywhere obvious.
The good thing about Sparrow was that she thought like a criminal. Maybe because she married one. So instead of asking nagging questions, she said, “Check the nightstand drawers or the little nooks in her closet. That’s where women usually stash their secrets.”
“Done, and also duly noted. Nothing.”
“Ripped the carpets and floor up?”
“Every inch of them,” I answered, flicking books off the shelf by her bedroom window. All four of them. “Any other ideas?”
“Are there any pictures hanging there?”
I looked around, about to say no, when I found one.
Cat always had one picture hanging up everywhere she lived.
It was in the bathroom, of all places. A lone sole picture of Troy Brennan, my adoptive father and Cat’s ex. Catalina Greystone had never gotten over Troy Brennan, and I couldn’t blame her. No one else could measure up to the man so feared and loved his name was whispered on the streets of Boston.
“One,” I said distractedly, refraining from adding who was in the picture.
“Rip it. It’ll be behind it,” Sparrow said with conviction.
“This is why I don’t trust women.”
“That’s okay. We don’t trust men right back. Oh and, Sam?” she asked before I hung up.
Here we go.
“Mmm?” I casually flicked the picture to the floor. Sure enough, there was a square-shaped hole in the wall behind it. Just big enough for me to shove my hand into.