Chapter 3
Sydney
Grabbing an empty copy paper box, Sydney approached her desk. Considering herself a minimalist, she wasn’t one to personalize and decorate, which meant there wasn’t much in her cubicle that she brought in from home.
A tiny succulent Nancy gave her the day she started sat beneath her monitor.
Beside it, there was a candle sitting on a mug warmer.
She only bought it because someone had a tendency to reheat fish for lunch.
She didn’t particularly need either of those.
Pursing her lips, she realized everything else was company-issued.
Nothing she couldn’t do without.
Perhaps that was a sign. Maybe she never felt like she really belonged there.
With a shrug, she slung her purse over her shoulder and snatched her access card.
Her resignation had been sent to Human Resources, Nancy, and Mitchell.
All that was left to do was drop off her credentials, and then she could be on her way.
Head held high, she marched to the corner office ready to say goodbye to this horrendous healthcare company and her misogynistic boss. The office culture didn’t jibe with her. At thirty-one years old, with a decent enough nest egg and marketable skills, she was too old to deal with this bullshit.
As she got to his office door, the rhythmic banging noises and grunting gave her pause.
Rolling her eyes, she wondered which one of his mistresses he’d invited to join him.
Lauren, the hot yoga instructor, or Ashante, the too-good-for-him barista/college student from the coffee shop around the corner?
How could her coworkers think he’d even be interested in her, Sydney? She was far too old for Mitchell’s tastes. Wait. Maybe she should take that as a compliment. They must’ve thought she looked young.
Chuckling to herself, she twisted the knob and entered the office.
The door closed behind her, and her purse fell to the floor as something warm and moist splattered across her face.
Fink
Fink hadn’t heard the door open, but he sure as shit picked up on it closing. The thud of her bag hitting the floor drew his attention far too late. He’d bludgeoned Grant too enthusiastically and had forgotten to keep his awareness up.
Fuck.
Now he had a witness to deal with. This was supposed to be an in-and-out thing. Instead, he stood face-to-face with—
He blinked several times to make sure he saw clearly.
Another clown?
Wearing a long fire-engine red wig parted down the middle into two long pigtails over her shoulders stood a woman with a decorative red line drawn on her face.
Blood had splattered across her features.
It sort of blended in with the red circle on the tip of her nose and her ruby-painted lips.
Though it soiled the white blouse she’d worn with the wide lapels and puffy shouldered sleeves beneath the thin red suspenders holding up her black-and-white checkered shorts.
Sexy for a clown. He hadn’t known that was possible.
Wait.
They matched.
On any other day, this circumstance would’ve amused him, but in that moment, he was kind of busy.
The two of them stood in silence while Brett Michaels crooned about roses having thorns. No doubt they both were stunned at coming upon each other. Fink, sure as shit, hadn’t expected she’d walk in on him. He doubted she had anticipated witnessing a murder.
What was he supposed to do?
Gurgles turned into groans as Grant rolled over.
Both of their gazes immediately shifted to him.
His skull was caved in on the left side, and his nose had seen better days. If left to his own devices, this guy would die a slow and painful death, and if Fink got out of the office soon, Grant would die alone.
But what was he supposed to do about the sexy clown woman?
Quick as lightning, she lunged toward him. Fink raised the golf trophy he had broken on Grant’s head, but before he could swing, she swiped something off the desk and jabbed it into Grant’s neck.
Fink stepped back as a geyser spurted out from the dying man.
Blinking, he let the trophy fall from his hands.
That was unexpected.
Still crouching, she looked up at him. “I just killed him. Didn’t I?”
Fink shrugged. Grant would have great difficulty surviving repeated head injuries and a letter opener to the neck. “To be fair, he was already dying.”
She covered her mouth. “So, he wasn’t dead yet?”
Fink grabbed some tissues from the box, got down on one knee, and rubbed the handle of the metal stuck in Grant’s jugular. Doing his best, he attempted to remove her fingerprints. “You kind of interrupted me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, curling some of the fake hair around her finger.
Returning to his full height, Fink cocked his head to the side in confusion. Who was this woman?
“I shouldn’t have—I mean—you should, actually. I have no idea what I mean. This is crazy,” she rambled.
He nodded. “This situation is definitely a first for me.”
“So, what do we do now?” she asked.
“We?” he repeated. Fink hadn’t been part of a “we” his entire life. What had she meant by that?
“Yeah.” She folded her arms over her chest. “We’re kind of in this together. Aren’t we?”
Before he could answer, the doorknob twisted. He needed no more witnesses or accomplices. This was already far too complicated and the weirdest night of his professional career. Grabbing the red clown, he dragged her toward the door.
He turned her so that she faced him, rested his hands on her upper arms, and gently, if possible, slammed her against the opening door. Her hands slapped against either side of his face.
Their eyes met.
Before he could think, he lowered down and covered her mouth with his.