Double Down (The Titans #2)

Chapter 1

Phoenix

I’m standing here staring at a dead body, and all I can think is…I know her.

No, I knew her. Past tense.

Sarah, the same woman that I watched try and please Con what feels like forever ago, is now past tense.

Her naked body is flat on its back. When we first walked into the suite, she was lying on her side with her back to the door and her arm draped over her hip—like she was a sexy tableau waiting for someone to arrive and see her.

I guess in a way she was.

As we step closer, Maverick reaches for her shoulder, and her body just…shifts…to the side. Boneless, her arm flopping over the edge of the table.

A hot, shuddery feeling crawls over me, that sensation that comes right before you puke. I don’t realize my hands are shaking until Storm’s fingers interlace with mine, but my eyes still don’t leave Sarah.

I can’t see anything but her corpse.

My pulse slows to a crawl. Too slow.

I don’t like Sarah.

I’ve always thought she was a snake with perfect C-cups and a talent for ingratiating herself with anyone in power. She’s had her eyes on the Titans, my Titans, since she started working here.

My brain stutters, rewinds.

Didn’t. I didn’t like her. Past tense.

She touched what didn’t belong to her, and she tried to take what I know belongs to me. Even if I fight that knowing every step of the way.

But that doesn’t mean she deserved to die.

Did she deserve to be fired from the resort?

Maybe. She was annoying, incompetent, even.

All she ever did was stand around and run her mouth.

At the very least they should have moved her out of housekeeping, where she had constant access to the Titans and a steady stream of gossip, to something like… the front desk. Or laundry service.

Yeah…laundry service would’ve suited her perfectly.

But this…no one deserves to have their life and future snuffed out before their time.

A hand brushes my arm. “Phoenix,” Storm says from close behind me, his voice low, almost soothing.

I don’t answer. I don’t have the ability to form words as I stand and stare at her body. Everything in my brain is just…blank, except for her.

Storm steps in front of me, his hand cupping my chin as he forces me to look into his crystalline blue eyes.

He says my name again, and this time something unclenches in my core.

My breath catches, and the room clicks into place—the hiss of the air conditioning registering, the warmth of his hand on my chin, the salt on my lips where tears have tracked down my face.

Shock loosens its teeth, and I can think again.

“I’m okay.” Taking a quick, short inhale, I step around him.

My arms fold tight across my chest, and I tap my thumb against my fingers. One-two-three. One-two-three. A self-soothing tic I thought I’d broken myself of using.

“She’s the message,” I say, trying and failing to avert my gaze from Sarah. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a body, but hers is the one that’s going to play on repeat in my memory forever.

Something about the way my skin knew before my brain did when I stepped in the room, the hair on my arms rising in warning.

The others, like the homeless man who died in the alley, vomit soaking his face and shirt, and the men who attacked me, covered in blood and violence as the Titans disposed of their bodies…they were different.

Even my dad, who thought eating a bullet was preferable to living…even his death was different than the one I’m currently staring at.

Their deaths were the product of their lives, and the evidence of that was carved without mercy into their flesh.

Sarah’s death is different. Nothing about her tells the story of the way she lived. Not a single thing is out of place on her perfectly positioned corpse.

Sarah was murdered. It’s beyond clear that she died a violent death, but she looks completely at peace.

Her makeup is perfect, and her body is still just as stunning, with no outward signs of anything.

None of her bad decisions or the wrong turns that might have led to this fate…

no swelling, no mottled skin, no defensive marks that I can see.

Even her belly button ring glimmers in the low light.

Her expression is neutral. If it wasn’t for the red hole in her temple with a small trail of dried blood down her cheek and the glassy eyes staring back at me without a hint of life to them, I’d say she’s asleep.

That single red trail does all the talking.

“When the men on the side of the road cornered me, they told me they’d be sending you a message. I thought—” I swallow. “I thought I was the message. That they were going to kill me. They wanted you to know you weren’t untouchable.”

My gaze locks on Sarah’s vacant eyes. “I think she’s supposed to be the message.”

“We got the message they wanted to send. We answered with bloodshed,” Maverick’s voice is pure threat, and a shiver races up my spine.

“We did,” Storm agrees. “We showed them what happens to anyone who touches what’s ours.”

Storm’s arms circle me from behind, pulling me into the warmth of his chest. His breath lands at my temple, steady as a metronome.

I know Storm well enough by now to know that this is reassurance for him as much as for me right now.

It’s the knowledge that I’m here, that nothing has happened to me.

That I still belong to him, to them. His thumbs press once at my ribs, counting each one the same way I tap my fingers.

It makes me feel safer. Only a little—but enough to breathe without tasting metal.

“I think she’s their response. They want you to know it isn’t over.”

This is all my fault. The Titans are being targeted because I couldn’t pay my father’s debt to the mob. Every line in the ledger still adds up to me. Every time I try to fix it, it gets so much worse. I pull one thread and the whole thing cinches tighter around their throats.

“It’s over,” Conrad says with an edge of determination—or maybe it’s denial—in his voice. “We ended it hours ago. They must have posed her here right after we came down or…”

“Dude, she’s still warm.” Maverick says, walking around the body. His hand reaches out, but at the last moment, he thinks better of it and pulls back. “I’m no expert, but binge-watching NCIS for that hot goth chick gives me just enough experience to know she didn’t die very long ago.”

“Could she have died slowly?” Con asks.

“From a close range gunshot to the head? No.” Atticus walks around the table, not touching anything but looking at everything very closely, his eyes behind those glasses logging every minute detail in a way that only he can.

His white button down shirt is still perfectly pressed despite the long morning we’ve already had, and even the slight tan on his sun kissed cheeks looks meticulous and intentional.

Atticus is all quiet control and detachment as he studies the crime scene, glancing infrequently at Sarah but instead lasering in on everything else and the data those details can provide.

He studies all the little details that might go unnoticed.

The corners of the ceilings, the bookshelves that hold random decor that some designer picked.

He’s looking for cameras; I’m sure of it.

I stay, standing awkwardly in the doorway to the dining room. I want to go in and join them but I can’t force my feet to walk through the doorway.

Storm kisses the back of my hand then lets me go so he can join the others. Cold slips in behind him.

He’s taking in everything, too, but unlike Atticus, he’s focused on the girl. I watch as his attention narrows—the angle of her head, her hands, the stillness that means there’s not any danger.

He’s quiet for a moment, leaning in close to the body and breathing deeply. My stomach rolls.

“Metal, gun powder, a slight hint of seared flesh, overpowered by the scent of lilies from the centerpiece.” Storm's voice is quiet, gentle even, like he’s trying not to disturb the dead. My mouth floods, and I swallow hard.

“What do you see?” Atticus asks.

Maverick answers. “I’m thinking she had to have already been dead when they brought her here, but it hasn’t been long. Head wounds bleed and—”

“Not even close.” Storm interrupts Maverick.

“The bullet was a small caliber. It entered her skull at her temple. It probably bounced around a little bit. I’m sure the damage inside is extensive, but there’s no exit wound.

Meaning the bleeding would be minimal.” He looks up and gives Maverick an almost teasing look.

“I think this is where all our obsessions with criminal and forensics shows is coming in handy.”

He grabs his knife and flips the blade open. A gasp catches in my throat, and I take a step back.

“There are no burn marks that I can see on the entry wound,” he says, using the hilt of the blade to gently turn her head so he can look before letting it rest in the same position she fell in.

“I can’t say how long she’s been dead, but I would say she was killed here, or at least there isn’t anything to suggest she was killed anywhere else.

There are no signs of any decomp or anything they may have used to preserve her. ”

My mind is racing with everything as I wrap my arms around my chest again and try to focus without falling back on the tics that make me feel crazy. Instead, I focus on the breathing.

In for four.

Hold.

Out for six.

It doesn’t work.

I can’t be in the room with her. The air in there is too heavy; it sticks to my teeth like a film.

I’m really fucking strong. I always have been. It’s a point of pride with me—keep your chin up, Phoenix, no point in crying over shit you can’t fix. Push through, because sitting in it doesn’t solve anything, you know? That voice is muscle memory—do the next thing, don’t look down.

The only time I’ve ever felt even a little bit broken or defeated has been now, with all this crap with my dad and his debt to the mob. A debt I shouldn’t have to carry.