"They fought because of me, Damien. I don't know who he was. I didn't recognize the voice. But he was furious that Mom wanted to 'take me away from him.'"
"Why wasn't he caught?" Damien's voice stays calm.
"No evidence. No DNA. Back then, we didn't have cameras, so there was no way to see who came to the house that night. And my five-year-old version of events wasn't much help to the investigation."
So many details got crumpled up and left to rot in a police file. Like the fact that the door wasn't forced, which meant Mom knew him. Like the fact she wasn't his first victim. Three other women were found, each with a maroon dahlia placed beside them.
I tell him how Dad found me still hiding in that closet, how all I remember of his face that night is rage so raw, so searing, it could burn through steel. How my uncle was the only one to make me eat anything in those first twenty-four hours. How Ivette, Dad's secretary, looked at me like I was a cockroach she wanted to crush. How a cop nicknamed the killer The Bloody Dahlia.
"Your father had an alibi?" Damien asks.
"Yeah. He was at a conference in the city. Ivette and others confirmed it."
He just grunts, never stopping that slow, grounding touch on my leg.
That was the night my father stopped loving me. The night I became nothing more than a shadow in my own house.
"And your uncle?"
I almost laugh picturing Uncle Henry, with his wool trousers, collection of hats, and injured leg from twenty-five years ago, as a suspect.
"He was taking his trash out at the exact time of the murder. A neighbor saw him. His house was over an hour away, so no."
Damien watches me, like he's expecting more, but he just nods.
When I finish, a fraction of that weight in my chest lifts. If something happens to me, at least someone knows the story now. Someone else has the details.
"You need to get to work. I'll clean up," he says, and that's when I remember I was supposed to kill him this morning.
"Damien, how long have you been letting yourself into my apartment when I'm not home?"
His eyes widen for a split second before the mask drops back into place.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." But his gaze flicks downward, and his fingers start drumming on the counter.
"Uh-huh." I narrow my eyes. "Stop it, Damien. We're not in a relationship. I appreciate you coming over last night, but this?" I gesture between us. "This is not a thing."
"It's a thing," he counters smoothly. "I just need to remind you,slonko."
Remind me?My glare intensifies. "What did you just call me?"
He smiles, and God, his whole face lights up as he says, "My little sun."
"Great. And I'll be your little nightmare if you don't knock off the stalking."
From his half-serious expression and smiling eyes, I can tell I'm being completely ignored. How the hell do a man's eyes actually smile? No idea. But his do.
I stand and head to the bedroom to change, already bracing for today's incoming chaos. There's no such thing as a normal day in event planning.
Black knit dress, high heels, enough makeup to look awake. When I step back into the kitchen, it's spotless.
"You're cute when you frown," he calls from the sink.
"I wasn't kidding earlier, Damien. Grab your shirt. You're not staying here when I'm gone."
Last night, in the dark, it was easier to accept that I let the head of the Polish mafia be my emotional support. In daylight, it feels insane. Especially when the man is obsessed with me.
He doesn't argue, just pulls his shirt from where he tossed it last night, and we're heading out when Mrs. Margaret emerges from her apartment.
