A few taunting words, a single glass of wine, and then he all but vanished back into thin air.
I stillshouldcall the police, but what could I say?
Yes, officer, he broke into my home. How? I don't know. What did he do? He had a glass of wine, said my cooking smells good, fucking caressed my throat and jaw, leaving invisible fingerprints across my skin I may never be free of, and left. No, I don't have a front-door camera or one on my balcony, since it's 6 stories high.
There is not a single cop in the fucking world who will both believe me and care that it happened. I'm not harmed, not in any immediate danger. No way they take me seriously.
If anything, I could count on them asking about my involvement with Cormac Fomori.
I have none, but they wouldn't believe that either.
Perhaps it was a coincidence that it was my home he let himself into.
With that thought, my pulse finally returns to normal, the wine warming my skin as I reheat my dinner, my stomach finally settled enough to eat it.
As soon as I'm finished, I make it my mission to find out what he was truly here for, as I find it hard to believe it was me.
But the stash of cash in my toilet remains untouched, my filing cabinet still locked and undisturbed, and even my underwear drawer is still immaculately organized, ruling out any thoughts I had of him being just a run-of-the-mill pervert.
That would have been preferable to him targeting me, for reasons I can't possibly speculate on.
The best thing I can do—theonlything I can do—is implement more security.
I can set up a handful of cameras in my apartment.
Or I'm sure I can ask Antoine to do it. I know he's been the one in charge of doing so for some of the firm's vacant properties, those awaiting closing dates, and those under our legal responsibility.
No.
I have to take care of this myself.
If I were to call Antoine, the first thing he'd do is press me onwhyI suddenly feel the need to up my security measures.
In a city of millions, one more violent person on the streets is hardly reason enough to invest in personal safety.
The last thing I need is anyone becoming suspicious of me and poking around in my life searching for some connection to the killer they've just let go.
I have enough skeletons in my own closet.
Someone in my line of work getting caught even watching the illegal fights and not turning them in immediately is enough to get me investigated and possibly disbarred.
Instead, I'll do what I can.
I'll take a break from Mingle for a few months, I'll set up my own security cameras, and I'll begrudgingly find a new hiding place for the only thing I have to defend myself if he were to come back.
My skin pebbles from the idea, the anticipation that there's some reason for him to come back. I have to remind myself that,yes,he is handsome. But I'm sure any of his victims who possibly saw him before they met their demise thought so, too.
A burning question follows me into sleep, and into work over the next several days, taking up residence in my mind constantly, haunting me with terrifying images of his victims and even more terrifying images of his gorgeous smile as he playfully tormented me in my kitchen.
What could he possibly want from me?
Chapter 9
Retired
CORMAC
She lied to me.
