Andre: Too much champagne probably. The boss has been asking about her. There are no new videos.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Me: I’ll schedule something after tonight.
Andre: You do that. It’s never a good thing when you have his undivided attention.
I don’t bother responding and pocket my phone once again. I knew that Charlie would have to shoot again soon to keep suspicion down, but I was hoping we’d have time to at least have a discussion about how to proceed. Andre is right; having the boss’s attention isn’t a good thing, and right now, his gaze is pinned to Charlie’s profile on our website. He’ll want something, and he’ll want it soon.
Does he know that she’s in my apartment? I don’t know how he doesn’t. He at least knows I took her home for a night, based on my office feed. It wouldn’t be uncommon for producers to take home the girls after a shoot for their own pleasure, but it’s uncommon for me.
I stretch out my neck, vowing that I’ll figure this out. For now, we play the game.
I glance at the box one more time. It could serve as a distraction, but maybe that’s what we both need because, for some odd reason, I need to know the significance of what’s inside.
Grabbing the box in one hand and the carry-on in the other, I head out of the door to do the very thing that’s going to burn down my world and take Charlie from me eventually.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Charlotte Mitchell
The smell of a late supper wafts throughout Nix’s place. I’m in the kitchen, staring at the contents of the box he brought back while the food cooks in the oven and Nix showers off the horrible feeling of the night.
The entire evening, the entire time he was gone, I paced. I tried watching TV, but that did nothing for me. I strode through his apartment and eventually ended up on the balcony with the couch’s throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I didn’t like him being out of my sight. Not that I could help him if things went south, but right now, they have no reason to suspect us of anything. That still doesn’t mean I like it, nor do I like what he had to do tonight.
Poor Anya. God, I wish she’d just call the number, but Miles promised me he’d let me know as soon as she does. If she ever does.
I can’t get the image out of my head of someone fucking her corpse, of someone ripping her to shreds to bathe in her blood while they do it. She’s so young to have her life end that way, all for the sake of her family being taken care of. But what happens when she’s dead? Will her family continue to receive any benefits? Or does it end when a heartbeat is seized?
Nathan’s shirt is sprawled across the granite, and I pluck off a fuzzy. A few weeks ago, I thought my life had ended too. But in reality, it was just beginning. It’s wrong for his death to feel like a blessing because I wouldn’t have had the chances I do now: Being with Nix, catching a big-time arrest, saving countless people from the same fate Anya will have.
This? This shirt? It feels like it’s from another life. All of his stuff does, especially as I was telling Nix what the belongings meant to me. Or did mean to me. It makes me feel like a shit person for wanting that part of my past to stay there, to forget that I lived a life so superficial when I’m living a dangerous but great life now.
I ball up the shirt, travel around the counter, and toss it into the trash. It’s time to fully move on.
And then I turn my back from the box and head toward my future: Nix, who is still in the shower. I sit on the corner of his bed and pick up my phone where I had left it, the phone Miles gave me. As I check to see if there are any incoming texts, I accidentally drop it to the floor. It makes a thud sound, and I curse under my breath as I hop off the bed, get to my knees, and grab it.
But I pause with my hand half-stretched to it because something is poking out from underneath the bed frame. I bend a little more at the waist and get a good look at it then ignore my phone altogether and snatch the object from its hiding place.
“An envelope?” I whisper to myself.
I look at the bathroom door and nibble my bottom lip. Why would he have a large envelope under his bed? And by the weight and feel of it, there’s a good amount of stuff inside.
The seal is still intact. He hasn’t opened this envelope yet. Do I dare open it? I mean, he looked at Nathan’s stuff when I wasn’t around. He snooped…. So why can’t I?
It’s probably the stupidest decision of the day, but I open the envelope and pull out the folder that’s inside.
My heart stops, and the folder shakes in my hand, because on the tab is a name I least expected. A name whose theme is tonight.
Nathan Mitchell.
“What the fuck?” I whisper under my breath. Why does he have a folder on my husband? I mean, I knew Nathan worked for the business, but . . . Do they keep tabs on their accountants like this? By stuffing it underneath their bed?
Without further hesitation, I open the folder. The first thing on top is a picture of Nathan walking down the street in East Harlem. It’s such a random picture, and it makes me wonder why he was being tailed like this.
I flip the picture over and find another one. And then another. And on the fifth picture, I pause. It’s one of Nathan and me. I remember this day with perfect clarity because of the shoes I’m wearing as we trudge through the snow.
Before we separated, every year for Christmas, he would take me out and buy me a new pair of shoes. It was always a nod to our favorite Christmas song. Those shoes? The black knee-high boots? He had bought them for me that day.
