9. Olivia
OLIVIA
Bile rockets upmy throat as I rush to reclaim the knob and kill the flame, but Remy wraps his arms around me from behind, hugging me tight, trapping my hands at my sides.
I fight against his hold. Battle for breath. War with hysteria.
“He’s dead,” he vows. “You know as well as I do that a groan is normal given the circumstances.”
I shake my head. Wiggle. Buck.
“Calm down.” His voice is terrifyingly composed.
I keep fighting. Keep bucking. Keep gasping against the tightness taking over my throat.
I don’t know how long he holds me in his unwavering grip—seconds, minutes, hours… It feels like a lifetime passes before every ounce of energy is wrung from my limbs and I’m left frozen, staring at the closed door of the cremator.
Eventually I’m released, Remy stepping out from behind me in an agonizingly slow withdrawal.
I’m sure he says something. Asks something. But I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything other than the deafening flames from inside the retort and the thunderous pulse in my ears.
The man wasn’t dead.
I can’t bring myself to believe otherwise.
Remy might know the textbook details of how common it is for the deceased to moan and groan if air is trapped in their lungs. But those noises tend to occur when the body is moved. Not while being incinerated.
You never know. Maybe this is the norm when unlawfully disposing of a body.
I’ve never cremated someone so soon after death. Have never cremated anyone without family or government approval either.
But the sixth sense churning in my belly tells me that Remy has turned me into an unwilling killer.
I pivot to the room. Slump to the floor against the bottom of the retort. Hug my legs to my chest.
Remy moves about as I stare at the tiled floor.
He cleans the gurney, spraying it with chemicals that tickle my nose in scents of lemon and pine.
He says something else, the words not registering before he disappears into the hall.
Is he fleeing? Calling for reinforcements? Maybe he’s decided to leave and indulge in more slaughter so he can capitalize on the cremator while it’s in full swing.
Either way I remain comatose on the floor.
I relive the last hour over and over. How calm and methodical Remy had been. How familiar he is with my sacred space.
He’s nothing like the man who charmed me months ago, yet exactly the same in equal measure.
How could I have been so oblivious?
He told you he was trouble.
“Jesus Christ.” I bury my head in my hands.
I’d wanted him.
Pined for him.
Our time together at that dive bar had felt so heaven-sent that every second of it still clings to my memories.
My cell trills in my pants pocket, blinking me out of my catatonic state and yanking me back to the nightmare of reality with the retort continuing to fire behind me.
I’d been such an idiot.
Such a goddamn fucking fool.
I pull out my phone as thunderous footsteps echo along the hall. Remy comes into view at the threshold, his piercing eyes scrutinizing me.
“Did you call the cops?” he asks.
I shake my head, still trying to rid myself of the painful memories.
“It’s okay.” He adopts the demeanor of a hostage negotiator, all feigned patience and concern. “You can tell me the truth. Did you speak to the cops or not? Have you called anyone?”
I want to laugh. To scream. To disembowel.
Instead, I mutter, “The truth would’ve been nice six months ago.”
He flinches. It’s only slight, or maybe I imagine it, wishing it into existence as he stops in front of me to lower to his haunches. “Who’s calling you in the middle of the night, Ollie?”
I glance at the cell screen, alight with a number I don’t recognize, the device still vibrating.
“Answer it,” he says. “Put it on speaker.”
I want to comply. Connecting with someone outside of this hellscape is exactly what I need. A lifeline. A way out. But my brain is too sluggish and my hands to heavy.
Remy reaches for me. I flinch.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He glares as he swipes at my cell screen, connecting the call.
Silence follows.
“Hello?” an unfamiliar woman finally says. “Is anyone there?”
Remy nudges my leg, prompting me to talk.
“Hi,” I croak. “Yes. Hello.”
“Is this Olivia Pelosi?” she asks.
I nod, still so incredibly numb, the flames continuing to billow behind me. “Yes. Who’s calling?”
The woman clears her throat. “I’m so sorry to wake you, but my name is Pearl Scott. I’m calling from The Johns Hopkins Hospital. Your father has just been admitted after arriving in the ER roughly twelve hours ago. He’s got you listed as his emergency contact.”
My shocked gaze turns to Remy, my feelings quickly vaulting from devastation to anger.
Did he do this?
“What happened?” I ask.
“I’m sorry; I don’t have the full details. I’m only admin staff. All I can tell you is that he’s currently in a stable condition, but due to the circumstances, you’ve been cleared to visit now if you’d like.”
I push to shaky feet, using the cremator as leverage. “Umm… okay… Thank you…”
“You’re welcome. And again, I’m sorry to have woken you at this hour with unfavorable news. I wish your father all the best.”
The line disconnects, leaving me with a million questions.
I stare at Remy, trying to interpret his expression. To find any hidden guilt. “Did you have my dad?—”
“No.” He snatches the cell from my hand. “Your father is an asset. My people aren’t responsible for this.”
My people?
He sounds like the leader of a guerilla warfare group. But he also doesn’t seem surprised about the hospitalization.
I square my shoulders, attempting to portray tenacity. “If you’re lying…”
“You’ll what?” He cranes a brow. “You had the chance to kill me and you couldn’t do it.”
“That was before you turned me into a criminal.” My voice hitches, the pathetic weakness ricocheting around my throat. “Before you made me murder someone.”
“None of this would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”
“None of it? You mean that man wouldn’t be dead? And you wouldn’t have used my family business for illegal means?”
He sighs, long and weary.
Fuck him. Fuck all of this.
I need to get out of here. To somehow make my way to the hospital. But even if I could get away from my prison guard, I have no car. And then there’s the whole issue of the incinerating body.
The cremation won’t be finished for at least an hour. Then I’ll have to clean up and ensure the remaining bone fragments are placed in the cremulator. Will I also have to dispose of the cremains?
Oh, God. What if Dad’s health declines while all this is going on?
“Take my car.” Remy shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls out a key fob.
I blink at him, confused. “You’re letting me go?”
“I’m allowing you to drive to the hospital, and only the hospital.” He grabs my arm and places the fob in my palm. “If you divert from your path, you’re as good as dead. Carlo, too. Understood?”
Adrenaline floods my system for the millionth time. “I can’t leave when there’s a body in the retort. If?—”
“I’ll handle it.”
I shake my head.
He can’t. I shouldn’t. But my dad…
“I know what I’m doing. What’s important is that you fully grasp the weight of this situation.” He strengthens his hold on my arm. “If you find another phone or go to the cops—if you so much as breathe a whisper of distress to hospital staff?—”
“I won’t.” I attempt to pull my arm away, but he digs his fingers deeper.
“I don’t want to have to?—”
“I understand,” I snap.
I don’t need to hear how he’ll kill me. I’ve never been a slouch in the imagination department. I can picture my blood on his hands just as well as I can remember his palm scorching my inner thigh.
“Good.” He loosens his hold. “I’ll meet you at the hospital later.”
I turn rigid. “No. I don’t want you there.”
I don’t want Remy anywhere near my father, especially if this criminal is responsible for my only remaining parent being hospitalized.
“It’s not up for debate,” he states simply. “There’s still a lot to discuss. You will take my car. Drive to the hospital. Then wait for my arrival.”
Does he expect a yes, sir?
Or maybe a heil, Hitler.
I give neither, instead glancing away in indignation.
“Good.” He tugs on my arm, making me stumble closer, his face an inch from mine.
I shudder at the proximity, the hint of his heavenly cologne poisoning my lungs, the subtle warmth of his breath brushing my cheek.
“I promise to keep you safe from the repercussions of this.” His thumb rubs in lazy strokes along my wrist. So gentle. So sickeningly vindictive. “But that generous coupon expires as soon as you open your pretty little mouth to anyone other than me. Am I clear?”
I glare at him. “Yes.”
He doesn’t release me, doesn’t even loosen his hold as the weight of his scrutiny intensifies. Those dark eyes read me, imprison me, seeming to judge if he’s making the right choice in granting my temporary freedom.
But I’ll keep tonight’s secrets safe.
At least until I can figure out what I’m up against.
“I didn’t want this for you, Ollie.” His grip becomes tender, the tight lines leaving his expression as something softer takes their place. Exhaustion? Guilt?
For a split second I see him again—the Remy I first met. The temptation. The dreamy god.
His attention strays to my mouth for the briefest moment, a deep breath escaping him. “I hope your dad is okay.”