Chapter 16
16
I nara
Sunday, I stand on a grassy hill in a graveyard, at a distance from the crowds dressed in black. The tombstones are guarded by oaks and have a breathtaking view of New Rome. Even dead, the rich get the best real estate.
The first profilers discovered that killers often return to the scene of the crime. Or insert themselves into the case. It’s their way of reliving the thrill of the hunt.
I’ve never been hunted before.
I always attend the funeral of a victim. Not just to study the grieving faces and watch for a killer but to honor the victim. Gregory Martin had friends—loved ones. He was a real person with real feelings.
I’m his only hope of justice.
Yesterday I identified the second man who attacked me, the one who called me a bitch.
His tongue had been cut out.
Lividity on his arms indicated that he’d been tied in the same way the other victims were. The same way Rex ties me.
The wind cuts through me, and I rub my arms, searching for a twinge of pain that will carry me through the oppressive energy of this afternoon.
With the new body, Jacobs and Diaz have more leads to follow. They acted cagily around me, but I could tell I was no longer their prime suspect. Once they establish the time of death, they’ll call on me for an alibi. Ironically, he might be mine.
And I might be Rex’s.
Godsdammit.
The funeral ends. Like so many funerals, it gives no real solace to the grieving.
I’m shivering in my leather jacket, but as the crowd begins to break up, I move closer. There’s a dark haze hanging over the tombstone. A miasma of grief. I grit my teeth to get through it.
Then, the light breaks through. I look up, and there he is.
Rex stands on the opposite hill, his hands tucked into the pockets of a heavy wool coat and head bowed, his expression sober as he looks down on the funeral guests. A watcher, an outsider viewing the activity but never a part of it.
Surrounded by gravestones and framed by the city skyline, he looks just like the picture in the newspaper of him, long ago, as a boy. He was so young, too young to lose everything. Vulnerable to the press vultures who fought for a photograph of him and used it to sell papers.
I recognize the bleakness in his thousand-yard stare. I’ve been where he’s been. Lost, wandering an empty world that no longer makes sense. Hoping that it’s all a nightmare and you’ll eventually wake up.
The back of my neck prickles, and I blink. Rex is staring my way as if waiting for me to notice him. He raises his chin, and the image of the little boy standing at his parents’ grave disappears.
Rex is the reason for this funeral. He’s a monster. He isn’t here to grieve. He’s here to gloat. Any sympathy for the boy he was should be drowned in the cesspit of his sins.
And yet. . . He turns toward me, and I want to go to him. Close the distance between us and find shelter in his strong arms. He’d open his coat and tuck me inside, covering me with his scent and protecting me from the wind.
I scrunch my toes in my boots and will my soles to take root. I will not go to him. Not even to accuse him of murder, to hear his deep voice baiting me. To study the shadow his eyelashes cast on his sculpted cheekbones.
More people are turning and noticing, whispering to each other to point him out. He has his own gravitational pull, but I’m keeping my distance, even if my calves tremble with the effort. I need all the space I can get to study him.
There’s a darkness in him. Why didn’t I notice it? I have to know more about it.
He certainly stands out in a crowd as a man so assured of his power and dominance yet with a terrifying calm. He has none of the softness I’d expect in a man who inherited extreme wealth. He’s harder, weathered by tragedy. But he’s gone beyond that, becoming stronger and more powerful than anyone on the planet.
Is he so powerful that he needs a new challenge? A bored little rich boy craving new depravities? The thrill of the hunt? The kill?
If I didn’t know anything else about him, I would make that profile fit. But I can’t reconcile the murderer with the little boy who watched his parents die.
All I’m left with is an ache. Because I know what it’s like to wake up into a nightmare that won’t end. How to breathe when the pain is like knives lining your lungs. How to survive with a hole where your heart should be.
The funeral is over, and the guests are leaving. Rex doesn’t make a move to approach, and for that, I’m grateful.
Instead, he holds his hand out to me.
I shake my head and turn away, hunching my shoulders against the cold. I both long for him to come after me and dread it.
I can’t face him with my heart flayed open like this. Because it’s occurred to me that if I know what he went through, losing his family, if I’m the only one in the world who understands his great loss, the reverse is true.
He’s the only one in the world who can understand mine.
* * *
From the diary of Rex Roy, aged twelve. . .
Today is the anniversary of my parents’ death.
I’ve been kicked out of another school for fighting. I can’t help it. The darkness rises up and takes over. One minute, I’m talking with another student, and the next, I’m giving into the urge to punch the smug look off their stupid face.
I come back to myself only when my opponent is on the ground, and my face and uniform are spattered with their blood.
Hamish says I need to learn to control the rage. I’ll have to continue school at home until I do.
I don’t care what happens to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve cared about anything at all.
I spent the day at Mother and Father’s tomb. There are statues of angels there that seem to bear Mother’s face.
At least, I think they do. I’m afraid I don’t remember her face anymore. I stare at our family portrait in the great room, but my parents look like strangers to me.
They wouldn’t recognize the person I’ve become either.
* * *
Inara
As I head out of the graveyard, marching across the wet grass to the gothic gates, my phone pings with a text.
Sir: Let me take you home.
I ignore it and pick up my pace. I wind my way between statues of shrouded deities and weeping angels, taking the scenic route back to the city.
The whole time, the back of my neck prickles in warning. By now, I’m used to it. Rex is still out there watching me. He’s riding in one of the black cars crawling over the picturesque stone bridge, willing me to text him back.
Sir: Inara, please. It’s about to rain.
Sir: Let me take care of you.
Not going to happen.
By the time I cross the bridge, it’s spitting rain. I duck under the green awning of a florist shop, and that’s when I notice the black town car following me.
I stop and let it roll past. I can’t get a good look at the driver, but the shape of him—burly, with a shaved head—gives me a sense of deja vu.
I step into the street to snap a picture of the retreating license plate and text it to Mina.
Can you run this?
Usually, Mina gets back to me instantly. I walk a few blocks, waiting for the ding of a notification.
No response. I tap my cell phone against my chin.
Something’s up. Mina told me she’d get back to me in a few hours with what she found on Rex. She should’ve checked in by now. I need leads. I need answers.
I hop a bus to Club Empire. The place looks closed, but the doors are unlocked. A receptionist in a black and purple corset and leather leggings appears and greets me. He’s a different employee from the ones I’ve seen before, with midnight dark skin and a silver choker around his neck that looks like a collar. “Ms. Ramos. How can I help you?”
I open my mouth and then pause. “You know my name?”
“Of course. I know all our platinum members. I’m Henri, the day manager.”
I shake his hand, still frowning. “I’m not a platinum member.”
“Ah, let me check.” He clicks the computer mouse a few times and nods at the screen. “It seems you’ve been upgraded in the past twenty-four hours. Congratulations.”
Probably Rex, pulling strings. “What does platinum membership entail?”
“Invites to private functions, unlimited use of the facilities at all hours. Access to a private bar.”
The bar would explain why Rex always has a drink in his hand.
“So it’s like an exclusive club.”
“Membership dues run a hundred thousand a month, due in one yearly payment. So yes. It’s very exclusive.”
I have to give Henri credit. He seems unfazed when my eyes almost pop out of my head.
Rex paid over a million dollars for me to have special access? What is he playing at? I plan on never scening with him again.
“Would you like a tour?” Henri asks.
“No. . . thank you. Maybe later. I was here Wednesday night. You told me a car was available to take me home. Is that a common club service?”
“No. It was privately arranged.”
“Who arranged it?”
“I can’t say. The driver himself told me he was waiting for you. I thought you had arranged it.”
“The driver. Do you have his information?”
“I don’t.”
“Does he often give members rides?”
“I’m not sure. I’d never seen him before.”
Dead end. I blow out a breath, trying to remain calm.
“The man I’ve been scening with—does he come here often? Does he scene with anyone else?” It’s not pertinent to the case, but I want to know. How many people is Rex Roy toying with?
Just me? Or am I one of many?
It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge any information about our members. They expect total confidentiality. As a member yourself, I’m sure you understand.”
“I do.” I flash my badge. “Which is why I didn’t want to come here with a warrant. But I will if I have to.”
Henri studies my badge, his placid expression remaining in place. “I’ll ask the club owners to reach out to you.”
“Do that. I’m sure they’d prefer to manage this discreetly.”
Henri raises his head, looking past me at something or someone who makes him blink. I turn.
Beyond the glass front doors, a car has pulled up to the curb. A black town car. Identical to the one that Rex Roy left in at the gravesite. Identical to the one that brought me home on Wednesday night.
Maybe this visit wasn’t such a waste after all.
I walk out of Club Empire and around to the driver’s side of the car. The driver rolls down the window as I approach. Shaved head, thick neck. Looks like a bouncer. He’s the same man who brought me home the night I was attacked.
“Ms. Ramos,” he greets me. Between him and the receptionist, it’s jarring to be recognized on sight. “You’re looking for me?”
“Yes.” I hold up my badge. “I have questions for you.”
He hits a button, and the back door pops open. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride, and we can talk.”
I hesitate, glancing back at Henri, but he’s disappeared.
The driver smirks. “You’ll get home safe. I swear on my job.”
I slide into the backseat. The leather holds the faint scent of cologne, the cedar scent I’ve come to associate with Rex Roy. I fight the urge to close my eyes and fall into the memory of our club scenes.
Instead, I glare at the rearview mirror as the driver pulls the car from the curb.
“Ivan Petrov. Nice to meet you.” He has a thick Bronx accent, but the tattoos peeking above his collar look Bratva.
“Where’d you get those tattoos?”
“Prison,” he answers easily. “That was before I got this job. I’m straight now.”
“Where were you Monday night?” The night Gregory Martin was killed.
“At home. In bed.”
“What about Wednesday night? After you witnessed the attack.”
“Same thing as Monday. After I gave my statement to the police, I headed home for some shut-eye. Same as you.” He shrugs in an attempt to show solidarity for that dumpster fire of a night.
I keep my expression blank. “Can anyone corroborate this?”
“My girlfriend.” He grimaces. “Not much of an alibi, I know. But I have my drive logs. And my employer saw me.”
“Your employer?” I get a sinking feeling even before he states the name.
“Mr. Rex Roy. I’m officially employed by Roy Enterprises, but I’m his personal driver.”
Of course he is. Rex has his fingerprints all over this case and my life. I sag back in the seat.
To his credit, Ivan doesn’t look triumphant. He lets the silence stretch between us, letting the car idle at a traffic light. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road.
“Does Mr. Roy often hire you to take women home?”
He holds up a hand. “Before we continue, I’d like to make it clear. I won’t talk about my employer. He’s a good man.”
The conviction in his voice hits me in the gut. “He’s a prime suspect in the murders of three men.”
Ivan doesn’t bat an eye at this. “I won’t speak against him. But I do have orders to tell you what you want to know.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes.” He stops at a light and meets my eyes in the mirror. “Mr. Roy made it very clear I was to help you in any way I can.”
The bastard. “Then tell me. How many other people has Rex Roy hired you to drive from Club Empire?”
“No one. Other than you. I only drive Mr. Roy. And now you.”
He pulls over to hand me his card.
“Here’s my card. That’s my personal cell. You need a ride; you call me.”
I take the card. I don’t want to, but I do. “I thought you were Rex’s personal driver.”
“Mr. Roy made it very clear that you’re now my priority.”
“I bet he did.” I pocket the card.
Ivan smiles. “We’re here.”
I look up at the glowing marquee of Hotel Magnifique. The golden lion statues snarl at me.
I hadn’t planned to come back here.
“He told me you’d say that,” Ivan says, surprising me. I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud. He gives me a sympathetic look, a look that tells me that he knows what it’s like to deal with Rex Roy, to be manipulated by him.
And yet, Ivan believes Rex is a good man. Why? I want to ask, but something stops me.
Maybe I don’t want to know. Life is easier when I can believe that bad men are all bad.
The hotel doorman heads to my door. Ivan hits a button to unlock it.
“This isn’t over.” I fix him with a hard glare, but he only nods.
“I’ll answer when you call me. And Ms. Ramos?”
I pause halfway out the door.
“Life’s hard. My advice? Enjoy the good parts when you can.”