Where is this prick?
While I wait, I take my phone out and google “Richard Mason murder.” Hundreds of articles come up about the rich prick that’s under Guy’s skin. Photos of Erin and her two little girls have me pausing. The youngest was six, the oldest eight. It says Erin shot both girls before shooting herself, leaving a note behind explaining that she couldn’t bear the thought of not being a good enough mother or failing her girls.
In the note, she apologized to Richard, saying it wasn’this fault, and he loved them all the best he could, but her day to day had become too much to handle.
Guy was right. It’s cut and dry. The handwriting was confirmed to be Erin’s, no prints on the gun except hers, and a self-inflicted gunshot wound to her temple.
But I know what the chief meant about that instinct. I’ve met a lot of awful people in my life. Iamone of those awful people. And there have been occasions, at diners, coffee shops, even standing in line at malls, when people look at me and a kind of fear crosses their expression. They know something isn’t quite right with me. Maybe the ghosts of those I’ve killed really do whisper in people’s ears.
I wonder what they say.
I close out of the articles and continue waiting.
Night falls before he finally appears.
Seth Sinclair.
He strides out of the building in a blue striped suit, his tall, domineering figure intimidating even from here. Like all the Sinclair siblings, his hair is white-blonde, though his was always a little longer than his brothers’.
It’s the first time he’s been spotted in years. He’s been hiding out in the UK, somewhere I no longer wish to go, but now he’s back.
It’s fitting that he should die on Ava’s favorite day.
He gets into a sleek limo car, and as it moves away from the sidewalk, I start my engine and follow.
It’s a short drive before his car stops outside an apartment building. Seth gets out, his phone against his ear, and nods to the doorman as he enters, vanishing from sight.
I move quickly.
After parking up, I make sure my gun and the device I need is in my purse. The streets are dark but busy, peoplepanic-buying last minute gifts or waiting for cabs, maybe to airports to fly and see family. I stride toward the building, totally at ease, and flash the doorman an award-winning smile.
He doesn’t question who I am, or if I’m visiting. My designer coat and handbag, paired with my confidence, gives me an air of belonging. Slipping my hand into my bag, I activate the device and stroll confidently across the lobby. The security guard frowns at his computer and calls for assistance on his radio, not even giving me a second look. The cameras situated throughout the building have been knocked out, and from experience, I have around eleven minutes until they get them back online.
Seth is at the elevators, still distracted by his phone. When he steps inside, I wait for the doors to close, then note the floor he gets out on. I take another elevator. Soft music plays as I climb each floor, and I take out my black leather gloves, humming as I slide them on and stretch out my fingers.
The elevator dings and opens, just as Seth is unlocking his door and going inside.
I waste no time following.
Nine and a half minutes left.
He’s so arrogant he doesn’t even lock his door, but that’s to be expected from a Sinclair. They’re untouchable, or so they think.
I stride into the large, stylish apartment as if it’s my own. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a beautiful view of the city, the lights sparkling against a darkened sky. For a moment, I take in the picturesque scene, the quiet before the bloodshed.
“You’ve broken into the wrong place, darling.” Seth approaches from behind the large, U-shaped sofa, a beer inhis hand. He takes a swig from it, his ice-blue gaze dropping down my body. “Or the right place, depending on what you’re looking for.”
He takes casual steps around the sofa and sits in the center, exhaling before draping his arms out on the cushions either side of him, the bottle of beer dangling between his fingers.
He’s exactly how I remember him. Cocky, handsome, suave. Just like his brothers. An acidic feeling unfurls in my chest, and I fight against the urge to shake, to run, to get as far away from a Sinclair as possible. The girl in me wants to recoil. Fight or flight kicks in, and for the first time in years, I want to choose the latter. If I run, maybe he’ll forget this ever happened.
But if I run, he’ll never pay for what he did.
“You don’t recognize me,” I say.
“I think I’d remember a face like yours.”
I tuck my hands into my coat pockets. “The last time you saw me was at a funeral fourteen years ago. I was sixteen. You were eighteen. You smiled at me that day, do you remember?”
