Page 17 of Murder Notes

My eyes go wide. “Rich, I—”

“Good night, Lilah.”

He ends the call and I huff out a frustrated breath before setting the phone on the desk opposite Cujo. He can’t come here. I can’t let that happen. “And I say please,” I grumble, grabbing a wooden box on the desk in front of me and sliding it to me. And I don’t show emotions because I don’t feel them anymore. Not since I left this place, which I don’t intend to explain to him or anyone. Furthermore, and considering the damn burn in my chest that tells me the sooner I leave, the better, I need to get to work.

I lift the lid of the box and remove a stack of index cards from inside, and thanks to having the weekly maid service exclude this room from their duties, the dust clinging to them becomes a cloud in my face and open mouth. Because why wouldn’t my mouth be hanging open? I suck in dust that hits my throat, and it triggers a tickle that becomes a burn. My best attempt at hacking up a lung follows, a skill my mentor back in my NYPD days had mastered almost as well as his job. Roger Griffin was—is—my idol. He’s also a hard-ass old man and a chain-fucking-smoker who seemed determined to give me black lung via secondhand smoke.

Recovering from my dust-induced near death, I think of him now and how much I’d like to see him. But I won’t call him. I can’t call him. Not when I’ve avoided him for years, and in fact, he was one of the reasons I left New York. He was good at his job. So damn good that I didn’t want his sights turned on me should the unfortunate circumstances present themselves. He might love me like a daughter, but he’d hate me like a monster if he saw beneath my skin.

Really. Truly. I’m not sure how he didn’t see who I really am, but maybe I needed to see it for him to see it. Which is just another reason I will never let myself look in that man’s eyes again.

That said, if I did, and if Mr. Too Intuitive for His Own Good were here right now, he’d tell me to document what I know about my perp, of which I now have two. Perp Number One is my assassin, or rather the serial killer, if I listen to everyone else rather than my instincts, which has never worked for me. Perp Number One is an assassin. And Perp Number Two is King Junior. Unless, of course, Perp One and Two are the same person. A far-fetched thought, but then the tattoo is a common denominator, and I’ve seen crazier things since I started profiling. I need to treat them as two people until I know otherwise, and right now, the one who left me the note on the door is the direct threat that could stop me from doing anything else, including solving the assassinations. Perp Number Two is now my new King, until I dethrone him, which I will, and officially gets the starring role for now. But I’m not sure that’s what King Junior wanted or thought would be the outcome of tonight. And since I hate giving assholes what they want, I really hope it’s not.

I grab a pen from the silver holder to my left and start writing single words on note cards, one per card:

—EDUCATED

—DEVIOUS

I tap the pen on the desk and think about my mother and every movie-star friend she subjected me to, thinking of all the egos they represent, before snatching up another card and writing EGOTISTICAL on it. And because no one, not even my mother, is that ego driven unless they’re covering up the truth of their insecurity, I grab another card and write INSECURE. I tap my pen again. This was someone who was there the night of the attack, who could be someone connected to me, to Kane, or to both of us. I need a list. I need a list, which means a new stack of cards.

I label my newly created stack KING JUNIOR and then scratch it out. “You don’t get to be King,” I say, and write just JUNIOR. Liking the way that looks and sounds a whole hell of a lot more, I stand up, walk to the wooden step stool under the bulletin boards cluttered with pushpins, and climb the three steps to the top. Once there, I place my “Junior” label at the center top of the board and then line up the word cards. Once done, I step off the stool and stare up at the beginning of my creation and grimace at the words: Insecure. Egotistical. Educated. Devious. I just described every politician and attorney on Planet Earth and, according to the guy that came before Rich, myself. Kane, as well, if you remove the word insecure—his confidence is something that has always drawn me to him. Damn it, Lilah. Don’t do that. Don’t think about Kane. I refocus on my board and the words I’ve written. I’m off to a worthless start, but then, I remind myself, every puzzle starts out with a seemingly impossible amount of pieces.

Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair and walk back to the desk. Sitting down and deciding I need fuel for my brain, I open my right-hand drawer. Bingo. My stash of chocolate is still intact. I pull it out of the drawer and set it on the desk, and, as is my ritual, I line up a dozen pieces of chocolate in a neat row in front of me. Each will be a reward for filling in a puzzle piece, and since I haven’t eaten all day, I don’t even have to suffer a morning jog to pay for them. Chocolate motivation in place, it’s time for a new card and a new direction. Whoever this is knows one of two people or both—me and/or Kane. I can’t avoid him. He’s a part of this and my life, forever after, because of that night.

I write my name on a card and then his on another. Now. Who was close to me back then? My inner circle. I grab a stack of cards and use one per name. My father, Grant Love, then the police chief and running for mayor. My brother, Andrew Love, who was training to take over as police chief. Eddie “Asshole” Rivera. I actually write ASSHOLE on the card because it simply makes me feel better. Roger Griffin, my mentor. Logan Knight, my NYPD superior. From there, the cards start flying. There is my father’s campaign manager and staff. A woman Andrew was dating back then. My then—and now ex—best friend, Alexandra Harris. I stop at twelve cards, keeping the inner circle my focus, at least for now.

I move on to Kane and stare at the blank cards. There is only one person I know that has ever been close to Kane. Me. Well, and one other. I write that name on a card: Miguel Mendez, Kane’s dead father. A man who ran a cartel that he hid under layers of legal operations, with a savvy never seen before. A man who had enemies that Kane inherited by association. This has to be about Kane, not me. I’m going to have to involve him in this. No, I think immediately. Not that fast. Not until I rule out other options directly linked to me, not him.

I grab the note cards and walk to the bulletin board, and wanting to start high and work low, I climb the step stool, pinning my name and Kane’s side by side and above my head. When I’m done, my long list of names is under my name, and there is simply one under Kane’s name—Miguel. I scan my list and keep going back to Eddie, but my eyes pull to the name Miguel Mendez. Again, I think this has to be about him. He died not long after that night. Was there a connection to my attack and his death? Was it an attack on Miguel or Kane? I don’t like where this is leading me, which is to Kane’s doorstep. I grab a piece of chocolate and rip it open, shoving it in my mouth, only to choke on the horrid taste of mud.

“Ah, yuck.” I sit down and grab the trash can under the desk, spitting out the monstrosity in my mouth labeled as chocolate, looking for water I don’t have anywhere nearby. Opening the drawer, I grab a tissue and start wiping my tongue, like this will help, but I’m desperate here. I need this out of my mouth. Finally, I cross over from disgusting to a lingering chalklike sensation in my mouth, and I toss the tissue. I then grab the bag of candy and search for an expiration date to find my chocolate is two years past the “best by” date. Obviously not the thing to take with you into a bomb shelter.

My cell rings, and frustration with Rich and my chocolate fiasco wins my irritation. This man must let go. He’s going to make me hurt him, and that sucks big, fat bananas. I grab my phone and swipe my finger across it to answer. “I said please,” I bite out harshly.

“Please isn’t always good enough. You know that.”

At the deep, arrogant rasp of Kane’s voice, his words laced with a sexual undertone, I stiffen. “Kane,” I say coldly, and I do feel cold. Mostly cold.

“Lilah,” he answers, my name spoken with the tiniest bit of Latin accent that is both sandpaper and silk on his tongue.

A hot spot forms in my chest, and I bite out, “How did you get this number?”

“I’m resourceful. You know that.”

All too well, I think. “Why are you calling me now?”

“I wanted to call you many times.”

But he didn’t. He never called. Not once. “What is this about?”

“Are you at the beach house?”

There is a hint of concern in his voice I both welcome and reject. “Why is that your business?”

“You are always my business.”

“I was never—”