Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I want her to stop lying to me; that part hurts the most, the secrets she keeps. I would never do that to her; she’s the only family I have.
Shaking my head, I continue stalking the latest target—the job I was meant to do when Boston rudely interrupted me the night of his birthday. I couldn’t complete it that night because the chance of him working out it was me had been too high. He’s smart, that one.
Finishing up my milkshake, I get up as I watch him walk out of the club. And, of course, he stumbles. He clearly went in there for pussy and alcohol. Got what he wanted and is now heading home to his wife.
Pity he won’t make it there.
The client requested that I make it quick. That I can do. I don’t always take on extra requests. No one dictates how I should end a life. That is solely up to me.
My heels crunch on the pavement as I follow him. This route was the best one to get him on, and believe me, I know all his routes. He steps into the park, which I know has no cameras, and keeps walking, or more accurately, stumbling. He must hear my steps the closer I get, because he stops and turns around. He notes that it’s a woman behind him, then turns and continues on his way.
A man’s ego will be the death of him.
Thinking he has nothing to fear from a woman.
How wrong he is.
He stops at a bush, and immediately pulls out his penis, not even bothering to glance around him. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m still here. I get up right behind him as I hear the stream of piss splash on the leaves.
Thankfully, I wore my super-high heels today, so I don’t have to reach up too far. As quick as a snake, I swipe the blade of my knife across his throat, then step back before he has time to react. I watch him drop to his knees, both hands covering his neck where blood pours from the wound. His eyes find mine, and I offer a small wave before I turn and leave.
That will be another million in my bank account. Pity it will be needed to pay for Carrie’s debts.
Two weeks pass by in a blur. Carrie stays in rehabilitation, and I’m lost without her. We rely so heavily on each other for socialization that I just feel weird not to have been in contact with her for this long. I also haven’t seen my detective. And, yes, I’m aware that I call him my detective in my head. He’s stopped stalking me, and it seems I’m a little disappointed about it, because despite how I don’t want or need a detective following me, I quite enjoy his company.
My phone buzzes, and I hope it’s Carrie, that she’s gotten her phone privileges back, but instead, I see a message from an unknown number. Clicking on the link in the message, which I know I shouldn’t do if I don’t recognize the sender, it pops open. Just before I close it down after thinking better of it, I see Carrie on my screen, which has me pausing. Is she sending me this from rehab? But then I see two men step into view. I recognize both of them right away. One is her date from that party she made me go to, who is now deceased, and the other is Boston’s friend, Marcus.
Bailey hits Carrie in the face while Marcus holds her in place as she thrashes. My hands clench into fists, and my stomach roils as I watch. That man sat across from me at the café, and not once would I have guessed that he’d laid a hand on my sister. Asshole.
Does Boston know what his friends get up to?
My blood starts boiling at the thought of it.
If I hadn’t already killed Bailey, I would do so right now.
Closing out of the video, I go to my computer, the one I have stored in my safe, and open it, putting in my password. Carrie set me up so I could trace whoever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I don’t use it often because I have her. But now, I have to.
It takes me a good few hours to finally get a hit. I search the security camera footage from the night he was with Soren and Boston, and when I find him, I Google-reverse the image. Bingo.
Marcus Lottery.
I search for him in the database Carrie created for me, and it only takes a moment for his information to pop up. “Hello, Marcus.”
He’s a politician. Of course he is. Fucking scumbag. After writing everything down, I place the small piece of paper aside. It will be burned later, like all the others before it.