15. Salvatore #2
I search her eyes, watching tears stream down her face.
I hook my hands around her hips, turning her away from the window. Ophelia presents herself exceptionally well around here, and I know these vultures are praying on her weakness, looking for opportunities to knock her down.
Crying only makes us stronger.
“Who was your mother?” I say, staring at her face. I had no part in her mother’s death. I only kill males.
“Elanor Bennett.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, holding eye contact so she knows I mean every word. “I’ve never heard this name before. I promise you, sweetheart, your mother died from natural causes.”
“Promise is a big word. How can you be so sure?”
“I have connections.”
“What kind of connections? Ones linked to Lenny?” Ophelia searches my eyes. The pleading look on her face suggests she wants to be proven wrong, for me to reassure her that I’m not the monster she thinks I am.
“I didn’t kill Lenny Foster, but I have killed others.”
Her entire blood supply drains from her face, her mouth gaping open. She spends the next few seconds analyzing my face, working out why the fuck I would need to kill another person. Failing to reach a conclusion, she bursts out laughing.
“Ophelia,” I say, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. Calling her name is the best thing I can do to get her attention at the moment, seeing as though we are in public. “Ophelia!” I say again, raising my voice.
Ophelia cups her mouth, laughing hysterically, all the while I’m leaning into the desk, wondering if this is a normal reaction. I wouldn’t know. It’s not every day I tell someone I murder people.
“I’m not joking.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So why are you laughing?”
Ophelia removes her hands, revealing a wide smile. Tears streak across her face, but they’re no longer tears of sadness.
“Murder is hilarious to you?”
“No, not at all.”
Her peculiar reaction only makes me more interested, wanting to invest more time in getting to know her. “I’m working for a fucking psychopath.”
“Ophelia,” I warn her, my tone dropping. “You cannot relay this information to your friends.”
“I’m standing in the male bathroom looking at a polaroid, like that is such a crime, while you’re out on the streets committing cold-blooded murder. And yet I’m the one being punished? How is that fair?”
“Firstly,” I say. “Cold-blooded murder is a step too far. I’m more sophisticated than that.”
“Right,” says Ophelia. “I forget there are different ways to kill someone.”
“There are.”
“So, what?” says Ophelia, folding her arms over her chest. “You fool the world by dressing up in a three-piece suit, looking like you’re heading to a nice restaurant? When actually, you’re heading home to slaughter the prisoner you have in your attic?”
“I don’t have an attic.”
“Vandalizing the streets and stealing bleach must get boring after a while. You can only ruin so many walls. Destroy so many faces. What about destroying lives?” Ophelia tips her head to one side.
“Does that eventually feel mundane?” She works her jaw, looking away for a moment.
“Killing people is unnecessary when death is already coming for us all.”
“Why not speed up the process? Kill those who are better off dead?” I stare deep into Ophelia’s eyes. “Not everyone deserves to live.”
Lines appear between Ophelia’s brows.
“How do you know about the Crows?”
“What?”
“The vandalizing and the bleach—those details are oddly specific,” I say, stepping away from the conference table. “Tell me.”
“Your tattoo.”
“You recognized the symbol. From where?”
“My mother,” says Ophelia. “She warned me to stay away from the Crows before she died. I’ve asked around, but people tell me the organization is safely buried in the past. They’re lying to my face.” Ophelia hitches her arms higher over her chest. “Are you going to do the same?”
“Which people told you this?”
“A family friend and an investigative journalist. But they’re lying. The Crows are still around. A strange car appeared in front of me this weekend. They dropped a note out of the window and drove off, directing me to a person called Mike Myers.”
“Who?”
“The investigative journalist. He basically charged me eighty bucks, all to give me a warning.”
“What kind of warning?”
“He told me to stop digging and stay away.” Ophelia breaks into laughter again, shaking her head. “But here I am, staring danger right in the face, not listening to the warnings.”
“You’re good at doing the opposite of what someone tells you to do.”
“Thanks,” she says.
“Not a compliment.” I sit back into the desk. “Where were you when the car approached?”
Ophelia looks at me pensively. “Queens.”
“Around self-storage units with orange doors?”
Ophelia looks at me for a moment, her eyebrows knitting together. “Are you the one who bought my mother’s unit? You’re the private owner?”
“Yes,” I say. “Lenny Foster was an independent contractor working for me. I hired him to investigate the unit after hearing bits and pieces from someone about the Crows. One of my enforcers overheard them about the compound, how there was evidence stored in one of the units. To avoid anyone else from purchasing the unit, I bought it off the market myself, hoping to burn the evidence before people could learn the truth. But someone’s going out of their way to make this very difficult for me. ”
“Wait.” Ophelia blinks. “We need to go back a few steps. Did you just say enforcer?”
“I’ll fill in the blanks later.”
“Like you’re going to give me a full rundown on what it is you do after twilight?”
“My work is complicated,” I say, staring into her blue sapphire eyes.
“Who else knows about the Crows, besides the journalist?”
“My Aunt Viv.”
I scratch my head, the name not ringing any bells.
“Wait,” says Ophelia. “You think I’m the one who is making this difficult for you?”
“Others seem to think so.”
“Others?”
You’ll be digging your fucking grave soon, Salvatore.
“Lenny Foster was attacked before he could open up the unit and take care of the evidence,” I explain, a heavy feeling tugging at my heart. Ophelia could have been killed. “What the fuck were you doing in Queens? You could have lost your life.”
“Investigating the Crows, which you seem to be a part of.”
“Was,” I correct. “Past tense.”
“You’re lying to me,” says Ophelia, a forlorn expression taking over her face.