Chapter 5
Monty
Something is screeching in my ear.
I groan, burying my face in a soft, tartan-patterned pillow, and breathe in the smell of lavender detergent. The covers are tangled around me, and the curtains are drawn, but a sliver of morning light warms my exposed toes.
My phone keeps ringing, and I grab for it, answering without checking the screen.
“Who the hell are you?” I grumble.
“Merry Christmas Eve to you, too,” a familiar male voice says.
Grunting, I hide under the covers. “Sorry. Merry Christmas Eve. What time is it?”
“That depends. Are you still in San Francisco?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s nine in the morning.”
I whimper. “That’s practically midnight. What do you want?”
A low, masculine chuckle. “I took care of your problem for you.”
Stretching, I let out a satisfied groan, snuggling further into the bed. I’d told him about the gang I’d pissed off, albeit reluctantly, because he’s saved me far too many times since we met. “I already had.”
“Not according to my kill list. You’re safe. Just watch who you kill next time, Little Fox.”
I smile at the nickname. “Don’t worry, I will.” I have no desire to run from any man, especially when their only advantage was numbers.
“I have an early Christmas gift for you.”
My brows raise. “Is it Prada?”
“Better. Seth Sinclair.”
Goose bumps shiver across my skin at the mention of the name, and I open my eyes. For a moment, I can’t breathe, my chest tight, like someone has my lungs in a vise.
“Are you fucking with me?” I whisper.
“No. My sources picked up on him flying in from the UK last night. And guess what? He’s in sunny San Francisco.”
The words seem to float all around me.
Years.
Years I’ve searched for a Sinclair, waited for any kind of sign, and now one has dropped in my lap. It feels perfect. Too perfect.
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. I’ll send you the details. Be careful, okay? Merry Christmas, little fox.”
“Merry Christmas, Alistair,” I whisper, and he hangs up.
Yanking the covers off my head, I stare at the ceiling.
When I was little, Christmas Eve evening was just as exciting as Christmas Day.
My mother would sneak into our room, whispering excitedly to my sister and I about snowy footsteps left in the hallway.
We were given one present each, our Christmas Eve gift, and we’d open it in bed, tearing off gleaming wrapping paper and pretty bows.
It was pajamas, always, and we’d put them on in anticipation for the big day.
The next morning, we’d jump out of bed excitedly and wait, holding hands, at our bedroom door until my father said we could come out.
True to my mother’s word, footsteps led down the red running carpet in the massive hallways of our stately home.
The wide staircase was littered with pieces of carrot—left behind by hungry reindeer, my father would say—and when we’d reach the largest living room, the two couches would be covered in seemingly endless piles of wrapped gifts.
The cookies we left out for Santa were gone, the milk finished, and the magic of it was just wonderful.
And then they were dead, and the traditions were gone.
Now, I spend Christmases alone or working. I don’t have a permanent residence, so the twenty-fifth of December is usually spent in fancy hotels with room service and employees working when they’d prefer to be at home with their families.
Today, though, I’m in a home. A proper home with hand-picked bedding, walls painted lovingly, the smell of coffee.
And now, a purpose.
Dressing in jeans and a fluffy white jumper, I examine my reflection.
My hair looks a little wild, so I settle with tying it back in a low bun and applying a small amount of makeup.
My mother always said never to let a man see you bare-faced, and sometimes I wonder how much make up she was wearing when the bullet tore through her skull.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I stop and watch Guy. He’s making breakfast in the kitchen where I killed two men last night.
His broad, muscular back rippling as he scrambles eggs, his biceps flexing against the arms of his T-shirt.
I’ve never met a man as big as him, tall and powerful, with large, calloused hands and a solid chest. His dark hair is sprinkled with gray, and so is his beard, and those sapphire eyes caught my attention the first time I met him.
He’d interviewed me after Asher’s death, and I’d played the part of a clueless bystander. I’d noted how handsome he was but hadn’t thought much of it until our second meeting.
I’d watched with rapt attention when he was willing to give up everything for Ella, and for the first time in too long, my heart thumped a little faster for a reason other than the thrill of the kill or sex.
He’s a good man. A decent man.
Still, I kept my distance, because good men like him don’t have time for women like me.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Chief,” I say as I take a seat at the kitchen island. He doesn’t react to the sound of my voice, which means he knew I was watching him. I like that.
“Coffee?” He asks, taking out a mug.
“Tea would be better, but sure.”
He huffs a laugh. “A real stereotype.”
“Tea is infinitely nicer than coffee, Chief Gibson. I’ll get you some.”
He places a cup of steaming coffee in front of me, those astonishing eyes locking with mine. I wonder if he notices that I hold my breath whenever he looks at me. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”
“Your loss.” I make sure our fingers graze as I take the mug, and he snatches his hand back like I’m on fire. “So, what are your Christmas Eve plans?”
“Working out. Finally getting our grocery shopping.” He gives me a pointed look, and I roll my eyes. “Then maybe cooking.”
“You can cook?”
“Not really, but we have to eat, right?” He turns his back to me and plates up bacon, eggs, and toast before placing the meal in front of me.
We sit in comfortable silence as we eat, and when my coffee is finished, he pours me a glass of orange juice.
“What are your plans?” he asks.
I swallow some toast. “I have to do some Christmas shopping.”
“Do you want company?”
“No.” I say it sharper than I mean to, and a flash of something crosses his expression.
He takes my empty plate and turns to the sink. “Just give me a list of what you need from the store, then.”
“It’s for your gift,” I add quickly. “That’s why I want to go alone.”
He seems unconvinced by the lie, and that bothers me. Everyone falls for my lies. It isn’t even difficult anymore. But he knows, and that makes me feel … raw.
“You don’t need to get me anything.”
“I want to. To say thank you.”
He washes the dish, his back to me, and doesn’t bother responding.
I want to apologize for last night. We hadn’t even been together twenty-four hours and there were already bodies in his kitchen. I didn’t think my trouble would follow me, least of all here, but I’m glad I had him with me.
And it’s the first time I’ve been able to stick around at one of my crime scenes. It was kinda cool.
“Are you going into the city?” he asks, and I nod. He tosses me his keys, and I catch them. “Then take the truck. Your piece-of-shit electric car doesn’t have much charge left. I can use it to get to and from the store.”
Shit. I really should say no. I’m about to use his car in a potential crime, depending on how accurate Alistair’s information is, but it does kind of work in my favor. And I hate charging the bloody car; it’s so boring.
“Thanks.”
I slip on my boots and coat and head out.
The truck roars to life, and I make sure to pop one of my cherry sweets into my mouth before starting my drive into the city.
I pick up a few things to back up my story to Guy—a small gift for him, some snacks for Christmas Day, and a board game we could play—then drive to my real destination.
And I wait.
I eat so many chocolate-covered peanut butter bars that my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Glugging down a bottle of sparkling water, I hunker low in my seat and sigh, staring at the glass office building.
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’t his 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.
I am one 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.