Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
And, of course, I swore out that Matteo Grassi wasn’t in the mafia.
I’d been so wrong about so many things. Almost everything, in fact.
What else had I missed?
Were there other criminals walking around with me every day?
Were there any situations where the police would step in and help me?
I didn’t know the answers to those questions.
But I did know the answer to one.
And that was that the police were not going to help me now.
I had to help myself.
“Okay,” I said, nodding as I took another, longer sip of the awful coffee, feeling it burn through my system. “I have a lot of notes to go over now,” I said, giving Detective Carver a smile.
“You didn’t bring a notebook,” he said, frowning at me.
To that, I tapped my temple. “Like a steel trap, Detective Carver,” I said, giving him a warmer smile.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by the shrill screaming sound of the phone on his desk, drawing his attention away from me.
“Miss Pearson, can I walk you out?” Detective Hart asked, moving to stand.
“Ah, yeah, that would be good.”
“Can I give this fictional woman one more piece of advice?” he asked as we moved past the front desk where Nance was involved with some sort of stare-off with an officer.
“Please,” I invited as we walked outside.
“Have her not go home until sun-up. There would be no shadows to hide in then. Does she have anywhere else she can go?”
“Yeah, her best friend’s house.”
“Good. Does she need a lift there?” he asked, reading the panic on my face.
“I think she does,” I agreed, following Detective Hart to his car.
He drove me to my friend, Marcie’s, house then handed me his card.
“In case you need to talk to me about more research,” he said, giving me an apologetic smile, like he was genuinely sorry he couldn’t do more for me.
“Thank you. Maybe I will drop off some decent coffee to the station if my pla—book deal goes through,” I said, smiling. “Thank you,” I added, meaning it from the bottom of my soul.
Was I thrilled about the plan?
No.
But did I recognize that this detective had just given me the information and tools to do something about my situation? Yes.
Now I just needed to find those balls we’d talked about.
And then blackmail a member of the New Jersey mafia.
CHAPTER SIX
Matteo
I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. That maybe the whack to the head had given me a concussion or something.
Because there was no fucking way Josie was back at work.
After witnessing a murder, then being kidnapped and held against her will.
Those sentences didn’t even make sense. They tried to compute in my brain and ended up short-circuiting my entire system.
Enough so that I’d actually grabbed one of the other people who worked for me as they were rushing past.
“Greg, who is that?” I asked, pointing across the hall toward the break room where I spotted the gorgeous woman who I’d last seen as she was swinging a toilet tank cover at my head.
“Which one? The pretty one?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Josie. Pearson, I think. She’s the new designer. You haven’t met her yet?” he asked, surprised.
“In passing,” I said. “She looked different,” I added, shaking my head.
She had, too.
This wasn’t the Josie from the night before in her concert clothes that showed an enticing amount of skin. This was the professional version of her who clearly wanted to be taken seriously by her colleagues who each had at least a decade on her age-wise.
This Josie was wearing white high-waisted slacks with tan checks and a lightweight sweater that matched. She had her long light brown hair pulled back into a somewhat severe ponytail at the nape of her neck. Having her hair pulled back seemed to highlight the fact that she had gotten as little sleep as I had over the weekend, maybe less. Sure, she’d tried to cover up the bags and purple smudges with some sort of makeup that brightened the area under her eyes, but it wasn’t quite working. Neither was the blush that made her pale skin appear to have a little bit of life.
You wouldn’t know by looking at her that she’d spent a few nights before in a trunk and then a basement. Or that she’d knocked a man out then had run for her life.
But why would she come back?
Shouldn’t she have gone to the cops?
Wasn’t that what a woman in her situation did?
Maybe my father and Luca had more cops and detectives in their pockets than I knew about. It shouldn’t have been a surprising fact. The NBPD was notoriously corrupt. Almost everyone on the force was in some local organization’s pocket.
It was entirely possible that Josie had gone there, and no one would take her statement against me.