He couldn’t be more wrong.
I slip through the building’s entrance with ease, my steps silent. The lobby is quiet, almost eerie in its opulence. Glass chandeliers hang overhead, casting a soft, ambient glow. The marble floor shines, reflecting my image and sparkling with flecks of gold and silver. All of this luxury, including the designer clothes I wear, doesn’t faze me.
At the end of the day, we’re all mortal, destined to die one way or another.
The doorman glances up from his desk, raking his gaze over me. I lift my chin like I belong here and the expensive clothes I’m wearing are part of my identity. He doesn’t blink, returning to his mundane tasks.
The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and I step inside, the metal reflecting a distorted version of myself. An illusion. Aghost. But tonight, I’m as real as the pain I’m going to inflict.
I press the button for his floor, and the elevator ascends smoothly, carrying me up toward my destination. After the brief ride, I exit the elevator and walk up to Mason’s door and knock. I could pick the lock, but it’s more fun if he lets me in, unknowingly giving access to the future crime scene.
The door opens just a crack, revealing my target. His hair is messy and his clothing rumpled. The nearly empty tumbler in his left hand catches my eye, and I smile. Mason was never a match for me, but he’s really put himself at a disadvantage by being under the influence of alcohol.
“What do you want?” he asks, his tired gaze narrowing on my face.
I smile, stepping forward so he’s forced to open the door a bit wider. “Mason, right?”
He frowns, glancing at me with confusion, his fingers tightening on the door. “Who’s asking?”
Ignoring his question, I step closer and he jerks back. Even in his stupor, he senses something about me is off, that my black slacks and crisp black shirt are mere camouflage. Too bad his instincts won’t save him.
“I need to talk to you about Dr. Andrews,” I say.
“What about her?”
A flash of unease lights up his gaze. He’s trying to gauge what I know, trying to figure out why I’m standing at his door talking about the woman he put his hands on. He’s not ready for this conversation. Not like I am.
“So, here’s the thing,” I say. “She needs to be taught a lesson.” I shove my hands in my pockets, leaning against the doorframe in an innocuous position. As expected, he relaxes, misreading my casual stance. “And I need you to help me, Mason.”
His frown deepens, his brow furrowing as he tries to place me, to recall my connection to him and Geneva. “What the hell are you talking about? And how do you know my name?”
I give him a sly smile as though we’re friends sharing a dark secret. I suppose that could be true. Mason and I are the only ones who know that he hurt Dr. Andrews.
“Geneva mentioned you once, but that’s besides the point. She needs to be punished. Severely.”
This time Mason takes a step back, keeping his death-grip on the door. But he doesn’t shut it. He won’t. He’s too curious. Too titillated by the idea of hurting Geneva again.
For that alone, I’m going to cut off his balls and hang them on my rearview mirror like a pair of dice.
Mason’s gaze darts from side to side, confirming we don’t have an audience. His mouth thins as he considers my proposal. I catch the moment the idea takes hold of him, the subtle shift in his body as intrigue and something dark begin to fuse together.
“What exactly are you thinking about doing?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’m open to anything, as long as it hurts.A lot.”
“Come in,” he says, his voice low. “This isn’t something to talk about publicly.”
I step through the threshold while concealing my amusement. The door clicks shut behind me, and I take a moment to assess my surroundings. The apartment is as expensive as it is boring. Clean lines, neutral tones, polished wood floors that gleam under the soft glow of designer lighting.
Blah, blah, blah. Details, shmetails.
Mason has surrounded himself with objects that symbolize wealth and power, but all I see are the hollow trappings of someone desperate to prove that he matters. That he’s in control.
A delusion I plan on shattering.
He crosses the room, setting down his tumbler on the counter before reaching out to grab a glass bottle.
Mental note: His right hand is his dominant hand.
