Proof she killed Tammy Walters.
Maybe proof she’s involved with Oksana’s operation.
That’s what I tell myself.
Truth?
I just want to know everything about her.
I park a block away and stroll down the back alley.
Our files say she’s at work today. Her boyfriend Orion? At the gym. Callum? Fuck only knows. Third man? Elliot Sterling. He’s on campus, working.
The outer gate isn’t locked.
House is big. Do they all live here? Some crime family?
Breaking and entering.
Can’t justify this as case work.
No search warrant.
The back door is locked. No exterior cameras.
All the windows are locked.
No problem.
Less than five minutes, I’ve picked the lock.
No alarm.
It’s fucking nice inside.
Spacious. Lots of pink and soft colors.
Smells like her. Vanilla, heat, temptation.
And men. Plural.
A bouquet of colognes and testosterone.
I don’t go into the bedrooms. That’s where I’d lose the plot and start thinking with the wrong head.
And I need at least one functioning brain cell left.
I check the kitchen instead.
Clean, organized. Coffee maker still warm. Mug in the sink. Pink. A crack down one side, like it’s been dropped but not discarded.
Sentimental. Interesting.
Refrigerator’s stocked. Fresh fruit. Too many energy drinks. Condiments in labeled bins. Who the fuck organizes condiments?
There’s a board on the wall. White. Magnetic. Little pink star-shaped magnets. Meal planning. Notes. Schedules.
“Callum – laundry. Fold it this time.”
