The gunman spun around in his chair to glare at her.
“Sorry,” Riley said. “But she keeps introducing herself to me!”
“Didn’t she steal your husband?” the blonde asked.
“She sure did,” Griffin said. He was still sweating.
“This must be really awkward for you,” the blonde observed.
“It’s not great.”
“Don’t mind Bella,” Griffin said, reaching for Riley’s hand. She snatched it away. “She has female face blindness.”
“Female face blindness?” Riley repeated.
Griffin nodded. “She only recognizes men. It’s a medical condition.”
Riley blinked slowly, then shook her head. “I’m not dying here with you people.”
“So who should be first in line to attack this guy?” Griffin asked. “I never cared for Armand. I don’t like his urinal cake placement.”
“Fine. He’ll go first,” the blonde decided. “Then maybe that guy over there by the bagels. I don’t like his shirt.”
“That’s Rose. She didn’t sign my birthday card this year. Maybe she should go first?”
“You people can’t just decide who lives and who dies,” Riley hissed. This was what was wrong with the world. People like Griffin, who had overinflated senses of importance, wielding power over others.
Nick was going to kill her. That is, if she survived her own murder.
2
Six Days Earlier
11:47 a.m., Wednesday, August 12
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” snarled Nick Santiago, dimpled private investigator and barely reformed bad boy as he fisted his hands in the cop’s shirt and bared his teeth.
Life could go from blissful summer day to bonkers in a very short period of time, Riley realized as she clung to her boyfriend’s back. Not ten minutes ago, she—Riley “Middle Name Unacknowledged” Thorn—had officially moved in with him. But before they could christen the new king-sized bed, everything had, of course, gone straight to hell.
She blamed her batty mother’s tarot prediction for copious amounts of strife and turmoil.
The universe waited all of twenty seconds before delivering said strife and turmoil in the form of a surprise visit from Riley’s formidable grandmother. Elanora Basil, president of the North American Psychics Guild, had proceeded to cast a pall of judgmental disdain that could be felt throughout the entire rundown mansion and large portions of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
It had gone downhill from there.
Now Nick was assaulting a cop. Not just any cop. His ex-partner and frenemy Detective Kellen Weber.
“Calm the hell down,” Riley demanded through gritted teeth as she tried to pry Nick off the detective.
“Do you require my assistance?” The deep baritone came from the large, impossibly muscular Black man in the doorway.
“Stay out of this, Empire State Building,” Nick snarled.
“I got it, Gabe,” she promised her part-time spiritual guide and full-time friend. “But thanks.”
“I am always available for punching Nick in the face if necessary,” Gabe promised. After the briefest of hesitations, he gracefully dodged the melee in the kitchen and helped himself to a frozen Snickers, which he devoured in two bites before squaring his massive shoulders and disappearing again.
Elanora had that effect on people.
