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Authors: Kerrigan Byrne
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what Rown’s face would look like. Never one to be intimidated, he nodded a goodbye to Hero and spun to face the agent blocking the door.
Yup. Suspicious and threatening.
“I’ll be in touch.” He nodded at Rown.
Rown nodded back.
He could feel her presence at his back. The tingle of awareness started at his neck and shot down his spine. It took Herculean effort not to look back at her. His exhausted brain fired all kinds of fucked-up synapses. He couldn’t trust his feelings or instincts. He needed to leave.
Like now .
Tucking his legal pad under his arm, he did just that, putting one foot in front of the other in the general direction of his car. The checkered floor blurred in front of him. Thank God he had to grab a taxi on the way home. He probably wouldn’t make it alive, otherwise.
Keys? Check. Shades? Check. Gun, badge, wallet? Check. Check annnnnnd check.
A weary sigh escaped him as he stepped into the morning downpour. The press already gathered like starving wolves ready to collectively tear their prey asunder, but hospital security kept them at bay. He’d bet his left nut that Barbara had blabbed.
He called his partner, Vincent, to update him, then his boss.
Hero Viola Katrova-Connor would be his unavoidable obsession for the foreseeable future. She was his weapon against John the Baptist.
If they were lucky, no one else would die.
Chapter Five
“True is it that we have seen better days.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Seven Weeks Later
Home had never looked so damn good, but the smell assaulted her right away. Closing the door behind her, she clicked the button on her key that disarmed the alarm for thirty seconds and threw them into the catch-all pottery bowl. Hero dropped her rolling suitcase and carry-on and took cautious steps around the entry corner into her cozy loft.
Why the hell hadn’t she thought to send someone over here to clear out her fridge? Just when she was certain she’d thought of everything.
The romantic anticipation of seeing her apartment again was certainly a confused one. This place held nothing but happy memories. Dinners and friends gathering to sing, create, play music, and dance. Drum circles and costume parties. Hangover breakfasts and laughter.
She needed to be here. To remember what it was like to feel comfortable and carefree.
If only she’d thought to bring a gas mask.
Hero wrinkled her nose. The undeniable scent of death and decay emanated from the kitchen. Putting her purse on the lamp table and throwing her coat on the couch, she headed toward the windows. The three-inch heels of her boots echoed loud as gunshots on the hardwood floor.
In the middle of the living room, a cold blast of fear made her hesitate.
Her kitchen and living room were separated by a half-wall that had a granite countertop for a bar. It had never occurred to her before that it could hide a human being. What if someone was waiting to jump out at her? John the Baptist had called her by name. Did he know her address too? They’d recovered her purse the night she’d been attacked and her ID had still been inside, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have her information.
She couldn’t call someone, could she? Not because of a rank smell and a panic attack. Knox would come, any one of her family would. But, chances were they’d tell her she wasn’t ready to be on her own and harass her into going back to her parent’s house.
She loved her parents dearly, but after six weeks of recovering with them, she’d had enough of their hovering.
It was time to take back her life.
Hero felt a sudden surge of unfamiliar anger. How had this bastard turned her cozy sanctuary into a sinister place? Her breath sped and her throat constricted as she turned and took a few hesitant steps toward the swinging kitchen door. Her heart beating in her ears muffled the silence, and her muscles went painfully rigid as adrenaline spiked.
Wait. Wasn’t this how the pretty girl died
Yup. Suspicious and threatening.
“I’ll be in touch.” He nodded at Rown.
Rown nodded back.
He could feel her presence at his back. The tingle of awareness started at his neck and shot down his spine. It took Herculean effort not to look back at her. His exhausted brain fired all kinds of fucked-up synapses. He couldn’t trust his feelings or instincts. He needed to leave.
Like now .
Tucking his legal pad under his arm, he did just that, putting one foot in front of the other in the general direction of his car. The checkered floor blurred in front of him. Thank God he had to grab a taxi on the way home. He probably wouldn’t make it alive, otherwise.
Keys? Check. Shades? Check. Gun, badge, wallet? Check. Check annnnnnd check.
A weary sigh escaped him as he stepped into the morning downpour. The press already gathered like starving wolves ready to collectively tear their prey asunder, but hospital security kept them at bay. He’d bet his left nut that Barbara had blabbed.
He called his partner, Vincent, to update him, then his boss.
Hero Viola Katrova-Connor would be his unavoidable obsession for the foreseeable future. She was his weapon against John the Baptist.
If they were lucky, no one else would die.
Chapter Five
“True is it that we have seen better days.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Seven Weeks Later
Home had never looked so damn good, but the smell assaulted her right away. Closing the door behind her, she clicked the button on her key that disarmed the alarm for thirty seconds and threw them into the catch-all pottery bowl. Hero dropped her rolling suitcase and carry-on and took cautious steps around the entry corner into her cozy loft.
Why the hell hadn’t she thought to send someone over here to clear out her fridge? Just when she was certain she’d thought of everything.
The romantic anticipation of seeing her apartment again was certainly a confused one. This place held nothing but happy memories. Dinners and friends gathering to sing, create, play music, and dance. Drum circles and costume parties. Hangover breakfasts and laughter.
She needed to be here. To remember what it was like to feel comfortable and carefree.
If only she’d thought to bring a gas mask.
Hero wrinkled her nose. The undeniable scent of death and decay emanated from the kitchen. Putting her purse on the lamp table and throwing her coat on the couch, she headed toward the windows. The three-inch heels of her boots echoed loud as gunshots on the hardwood floor.
In the middle of the living room, a cold blast of fear made her hesitate.
Her kitchen and living room were separated by a half-wall that had a granite countertop for a bar. It had never occurred to her before that it could hide a human being. What if someone was waiting to jump out at her? John the Baptist had called her by name. Did he know her address too? They’d recovered her purse the night she’d been attacked and her ID had still been inside, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have her information.
She couldn’t call someone, could she? Not because of a rank smell and a panic attack. Knox would come, any one of her family would. But, chances were they’d tell her she wasn’t ready to be on her own and harass her into going back to her parent’s house.
She loved her parents dearly, but after six weeks of recovering with them, she’d had enough of their hovering.
It was time to take back her life.
Hero felt a sudden surge of unfamiliar anger. How had this bastard turned her cozy sanctuary into a sinister place? Her breath sped and her throat constricted as she turned and took a few hesitant steps toward the swinging kitchen door. Her heart beating in her ears muffled the silence, and her muscles went painfully rigid as adrenaline spiked.
Wait. Wasn’t this how the pretty girl died
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