Page 68 of Venomous Games

The hacker she pays is very fucking smart and evidently good at his job. That’s why she pays him a very large chunk of what we get paid.

And what does she mean she’s on good terms with a nurse? She better not be fucking someone in there; she’s there to get better.

I stalk down the hall to my shoe room, find my red killing heels, and slip them on. Then I head outside to get on my bike. But I have to wait for Carrie to give me more information about where I’m supposed to go.

Should I call Boston? It might be a good idea to warn him, even though I’m planning on taking care of the problem before it can get out of hand. I’m not sure where he had to go this late, but it could be work or maybe something to do with the Forsaken.

“Do you think someone knows?” I ask.

“Knows what?”

“Who I am.” I still, and when she doesn’t answer right away, I know she’s thinking the same thing.

“I don’t know how that would be possible,” she says. “The client paid a lot for the contract on Boston. More than usual. But I assumed it was because they know he’s on the police force, and that attracts a higher rate.” She pauses, and I can hear the clicking of a keyboard. “I just rejected the job, which means…”

“If they’re serious, they’ll hire someone else.” I utter the words neither of us wants to voice.

“Yes. Is he with you?”

“No.” I start the bike. “Call me when you have a name and address for me. I’m going to call him and see where he is.” I hang up and immediately call Boston. He doesn’t answer, and it just keeps ringing as I try again and again, which has me even more worried. I hop online and tap into my network to find Soren’s address.

I put the phone away and head to Boston’s work, in hopes I can find him there.

THIRTY-EIGHT

BOSTON

Rolland shakes his head as we walk away from the small coffee stand. He asked me to meet him here to discuss a case. It isn’t unusual for us to meet outside the precinct since we hate talking about some cases in the office because you never know who’s listening.

He looks like shit. His face is unshaven, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

“They have a lead, but for some reason, they’re being quiet about it.” Rolland stirs his coffee, and I glance at him. He’s been avoiding eye contact with me.

“On which case?”

“Marcus’s,” he says. “Why they’re keeping us out of the loop, I don’t know.”

Rolland and I are the lead investigators on most of the cases that come through the precinct. I’ve earned that responsibility through my years of dedication on the force and the cases I’ve solved. Sure, some of our prime suspects may go missing a few times a year, but aside from that, I would say at least seventy-five percent of my cases have been solved. So there are only a few reasons the department would withhold information from us.

We start walking the several blocks back toward the precinct. Rolland tells me about his day, and how he got called into work unexpectedly, and how it’s ruined his sleep pattern. Rolland and I have been partners for a long time, so I’m used to him complaining about the stupidest of things. But the sleep story is new. He goes on to tell me about the chick he was fucking last week, and I nod as I pull out my phone and pull up the cameras to check on my wife.

When I see her getting out of bed and rummaging through boxes with her phone to her ear, I’m confused. She steps in and out of the camera’s line of sight before I see her walk into her shoe room and slip on a red pair, which usually means only one thing—she’s going to kill someone. When I left her not that long ago, she was tired and almost asleep. So I’m not sure why she’s up and dressed all of a sudden.

Is she hiding something from me?

“Who’s the chick with the blue hair?” he asks.

“My wife,” I tell him. His eyes go wide, and we stop near the edge of the park. It’s dark, and hardly anyone is around.

“Shit, man, you got married and didn’t tell me?” He starts laughing. He looks down at my left hand, where my wedding ring resides. Rolland is laughing so hard that he ends up hitting the phone out of my hand, and as he goes to pick it up, he steps on it, breaking the screen. “Fuck, man, sorry. Let me get that fixed. I know a guy who knows a guy.” I glance at it and swear under my breath. Tonight is not the fucking night for my phone to not be working.

I want to know where the fuck my wife is going, and why.

Is she okay?

“So, who is this woman?” he asks, taking another sip of his coffee. “Did you get forced into marriage? I heard that’s a thing.” I tense, wondering why he would draw that conclusion. When I glance up at him, he’s looking at me intently. “Shit, did I give it away that easily?”

“Give what away?”