Alex will be forced to leave me alone, but what if it makes him come at Theo and he investigates him? What if I become an accessory to the murder? I was there. I didn’t report it. But according to Theo, that guy was a rapist.
Theo pulls into a parking garage and parks.
I’ve watched enough true crime to know I’m kind of being an idiot. I’m alone with a man who has every reason to want to end my life, and yet for some reason I trust that he won’t hurt me.
“Come on.”
I exit the vehicle and look around for cameras. I don’t see any, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
“You can relax. I’m not going to lure you to my apartment and drug you so I can hack you up and stuff your parts in a suitcase. That would be too much to clean up. If I wanted to kill you, I’d just take you out on my boat and toss you overboard.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought about different ways to off me,” I tease.
“Told you. I need a wife, and this way I can keep tabs easier.”
One intense and silent elevator ride later, we arrive at his apartment.
“This whole floor is mine. Well, it and the one above it. I own the building.”
“You own the building?”
“It’s not a big deal.
“I don’t even own a car,” I comment as he leads me down the hall to his door.
He grins at me.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two. You?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Well, I’ve got an age advantage, and I inherited most of it from my old man.”
“You’re only eight years older than me.”
He opens the door and holds an arm out for me to enter first.
“Wow.” I walk into his place and it’s huge. I could fit like four of my apartment in his living room and kitchen.
“Make yourself at home.”
“Right.” I kick my shoes off, feeling extremely out of place. He has a pool table instead of a dining table. Art hangs on his walls. I think I have a picture of a cat I bought secondhand at a thrift store. One wall of his living room area is covered in shelves holding what must be thousands upon thousands of records.
He removes his shoes and unbuttons his shirt to reveal his chest is as inked as the rest of him. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“It’s your home.”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
“I think we’re kind of past comfort.”
He lights up his cigarette and offers me something to drink, but I decline. He goes over to his wall of records and pulls out an album.
“That’s an impressive collection,” I tell him as something softer than what was playing in his Benz filters into the room.
I walk around the open space, making note of the pictures lining the table behind his sectional sofa. There’s so many of him with whom I am assuming are his parents and siblings. There’s some of him and that Shaw guy, but the one that captures myattention is the one of him and a dark-haired girl that shares his eyes.
