No one hears his silent pleas.
When I remember Maeve pleading in the stairwell, fury builds in my blood. I don’t bother whispering my next words. “You should’ve never touched what’s mine.”
He twitches, a sound groaning out from deep in his gut.
Satisfied, I tauten my arm and twist.
He slumps and drops to the sand.
Dead.
Staring down at the lifeless lump of flesh, I feel more at peace than I have all day.
I adjust the hat on my head.
This fucker won’t bother Maeve or any other woman ever again.
The damp, briny breeze soothes me as I search for the best spot to bury this waste of space.
I drag him farther under the pier and snatch his wallet to stage the attack as a robbery. Then I kick some dirt around to create a lazy, shallow grave, roll him inside, and cover him with the remnants of a million seashells.
I don’t need him to disappear. I’m not worried about getting caught. Still, relieving him of his wallet will slow the identification process.
With Shout six inches under, I return to the site of the scuffle and grab his discarded gun.
Next, I stroll a mile or so up the beach in the opposite direction and toss the weapon into the water. I venture a little farther and discard the wallet in a dumpster behind a restaurant.
Circling back through the city, I walk a few extra blocks and take a couple of odd turns before approaching the hotel from the northeast.
This isn’t protocol. Probably the sloppiest and most impulsive job I’ve ever completed.
But who’s going to miss a career criminal with no family ties?
No one, I bet. Probably not even Declan, apart from wondering where the man ran off to.
Once inside the Cypress, I text Rory to confirm that he can stop interfering with the CCTV near the pier. I head to my room for a quick shower, wash off the sand, then change back into my suit from earlier.
I return to Maeve’s suite. As expected, she’s still out cold.
Ignoring the pang beneath my ribs, I locate the filing cabinet containing her home files.
I find a healthy stash on her father—contacts, addresses, former associates andtheirassociates—but not the information I’m searching for.
Nothing on Nolan Doyle.
I retrieve her phone from the bedroom.
She shifts on the mattress, exhaling a soft little sigh. I pause to brush a lock of dark hair off her cheek.
Fuck. I need to stop.
We swiped her passcode while spying on the cameras in the lobby. Peeked right over her shoulder.
I should tell her to be more careful.
Some monumental creep might be hacking your cameras. Like me.
I’m such an ass.
