Chapter Twelve
Emerson Blackthorne leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass of his skyscraper corner office. His pretend fiancé, empath
Riley Davids, had kept his promises, his ragtag little conservation start-up working hard to make their neighborhood greener—and
Emerson’s company’s reputation sparkle by association.
Compassion had no quantifiable value. It only got in the way of more important life goals, like making money. Yet somehow
planting trees in the new park with Riley felt more rewarding than watching stock prices rise.
Emerson’s brooding gaze went to the traffic far below. It was supposed to have been a fake engagement to an empath. Surely
it could never become something real?
—Excerpt from the controversial romance novel Engaged to the Empath
Reece had driven for hours, until the storm inside him was quiet enough that the prickles on his skin had subsided.
Night had long since fallen when he finally found himself downtown, turning off one of the busier streets to a narrower one.
He pulled the truck into a passenger loading zone, uphill, with the water down behind him, and idled for a moment.
You can’t stay here, he told himself. This truck is not subtle. Grayson might have told Stone Solutions you have it or reported it to the police. AND we’re only
blocks away from your old apartment. Evan himself could find you.
Reece put the truck in Park anyway. “Let Evan find me,” he said out loud. “I’m not scared of him.”
Lie.
Reece clenched his jaw. Great, he was going to get pissed off again if he wasn’t careful. But why should that make him angry?
So what if part of him was scared of Grayson? That was just smart. Grayson was the enemy.
Say that out loud, if you’re so sure.
Reece sat up abruptly, looking into his own eyes in the rearview mirror. “The Dead Man is my enemy,” he said, nice and slow,
enunciating every word.
Not a lie.
Despite the cold winter night, there was plenty of traffic downtown still. Reece let the noise swim around him as he sat back
against the seat. There it was. Irrefutable proof that he believed the Dead Man was the enemy.
But not Evan, said the voice.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said out loud.
A cheerful chime chirped in the truck’s cab. He’d been gone for hours; it was probably Alex or Cora checking in. He pulled
out his phone.
Grayson: Do you still have your bear hat?
Reece stared at the text. “What the fuck,” he said into the quiet cab, as if Grayson could hear him. Why would he ask that
question?
He should ignore Grayson. What business was it of his what hats Reece had?
Or actually, no.
He would answer.
Reece stretched across the truck and reached into the glove box. He yanked the bear hat out and pulled it onto his head.
Then he held his phone out in front of him and took a selfie, making sure to flip off the camera. He didn’t bother with a
text, just sent the picture straight to Grayson.
A couple of minutes ticked by.
Then his phone began to ring, Reece’s old phone number on-screen.
Obviously he wasn’t going to answer that. He wasn’t going to answer, he absolutely was not—
He hit Accept. “What?”
Grayson’s deep drawl rolled through the phone. “You just took that picture?”
“I had a photo shoot last week, actually, Empaths in Animal Hats. It’s an upcoming gallery exhibit,” Reece said bitingly. “Of course I just took the fucking picture. Why?”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry, does me asking a question mean you have to ruminate on how mysterious to be?” Reece snapped. “What is the big
deal about a hat?”
There was another pause. Then Grayson said, “Because an identical hat was found in a storage closet in Stone Solutions, next
to Wayne Smith’s murdered body.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Reece said. “Why would I have left my hat at a crime scene?”
“So that I would have known it was you,” Grayson said.
Reece paused. That should have pissed him off, Grayson once again being so arrogant and making everything about himself.
Except Grayson wasn’t wrong. If Reece wanted him to know he was murdering his way through Seattle, the hat would have been a good calling card.
And irritatingly, instead of angry, some part of Reece felt a tiny bit better. It wasn’t that Grayson didn’t know him at all;
he’d fallen for the framing because the real killer had manipulated him with something deeply personal, something that could
trigger memories and cloud the judgment of even a man without emotions.
Not that it mattered. Obviously. “Well, Evan, you are my obsession,” Reece said, infusing it with years of practiced sarcasm. “Practically my every thought is about you.”
As the words left his tongue, he had to bite back a swear. They hadn’t been a lie.
“You can give me a hard time if you like, but someone killed Wayne Smith.” There was a new echoey quality to Grayson’s voice, like he was in a stairwell. “And I want to know who.”
“Gosh, if only you knew a great detective,” Reece said dryly.
“Your sister doesn’t think it was you. But you still haven’t said one way or another.”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“’Cause I’m asking you, Reece.”
Askin’. Some traitorous part of Reece had always liked that stupid accent, and apparently always would. “Fine,” he bit out. “Sorry
to disappoint, but this murder isn’t mine.”
“This murder. As in, this murder isn’t mine because I still know killing is wrong, or this particular murder isn’t mine, but boy howdy, wait until you find the stack of bodies that are?”
Reece rolled his eyes. “Pick the answer that helps everyone sleep at night.”
“It wasn’t that one,” Grayson muttered.
“Why are you acting like you care?” Reece snapped before he meant to.
“What difference does it make to you if I murdered the guard last night or if I murder ten people tomorrow? You’re certain it’s going to happen.
And hey, just for old time’s sake, guess what?
That wasn’t a lie,” he added with a sharper edge.
“I am truly certain that’s what you believe. ”
In Grayson’s background, a car door slammed shut. “Yeah?” Grayson said, voice gone lower, low enough to raise goose bumps
on Reece’s skin. “Then how about you say for me, ‘Don’t worry, Evan, I’m never gonna kill anyone ’cause I still know murder’s
wrong.’ Is that gonna be a lie?”
Reece hung up instead of answering. He’d already talked too long.
He held the phone in his hand for a moment. On-screen was still the selfie he’d just sent Grayson, his own face looking back
at him.
It was like looking at a stranger.
And then his eyes widened. “Shit,” he said out loud, tossing the phone to the passenger seat and frantically turning the key.
“Shit, come on, girl, let’s go.”
Because in the picture, through the truck window behind his head, was the distant curve of the Seattle Great Wheel, lit up
like a beacon against the night sky.
Clear evidence of Reece’s downtown location that even Grayson wasn’t going to miss.
The truck’s engine opened up with a roar as he floored it up the hill, away from the water. There was still downtown traffic
slowing him, even on a freezing late evening, but it was fine. This was fine. Yes, he’d accidentally sent Grayson unmistakable evidence that he was downtown, and yes, the high-rise with the studio wasn’t
far away, and yes, Reece had heard Grayson’s car door slam, but it was all fine, he wasn’t going to catch up in the fucking Smart car—
Reece heard it before he saw it—the unmistakable whine of one of the world’s fastest motorcycle engines. He looked to the right, just in time to catch the sight of his own Smart car barreling the wrong way down a one-way street and heading straight for him.
Reece swore again as he accelerated, blowing past a Do Not Enter sign as he cut across the intersection against the light
and the wrong way up a one-way of his own. He took the first opening, another left turn onto a thankfully mostly empty street,
and gunned it.
After a handful of blocks, he glanced in the rearview mirror.
Fuck. There was Grayson.
Then the sound of sirens up ahead had his gaze snapping forward.
Fuck fuck fuck. There were the cops.
Reece made another left, careening back downhill toward the water. Maybe he could lose them all in the traffic and narrow
streets near Pike Place—
At the bottom of the hill in front of him, a delivery truck pulled forward even as the light changed, blocking the whole intersection.
A flurry of thoughts went through Reece’s mind in the space of a heartbeat.
The F-150 is big and it’s blocking the Smart car’s view—
Grayson can’t see the delivery truck and he’s barreling downhill with a Hayabusa engine and stock brakes—
You can swerve at the last second but he won’t be ready to match you—
He’ll be fucked—and all you have to do is keep straight.
Reece tightened his hands on the steering wheel.
And then, in the second heartbeat, he yanked the steering wheel right.
The truck’s tires screeched as he turned into a narrow alley, fishtailing dangerously but not flipping. Reece tore down the alley, a local shop’s outside racks of clothes and tourist knickknacks flying up around him as he knocked them down with the wide truck.
At the end of the alley, he shot across the street and into a parking garage entrance, taking off the red-and-white-striped
barrier arm like a bowling ball cutting down pins. His tires screeched again as he sliced through the garage, then took out
the second barrier arm as he popped out onto the street on the other side.
He turned right again and floored it. A moment later, he was up the ramp and on I-5, with the cops and Grayson and the Smart
car nowhere to be seen.
One moment, Grayson was chasing the F-150 downhill.
The next, Reece had suddenly cut right, down an alley meant for pedestrians.
And as the F-150 disappeared, Grayson could see what was at the bottom of the hill: a delivery truck, blocking the intersection.
He slammed on the brakes. The Smart car squealed, and Grayson had just enough time to swerve to the opposite curb right before
the base of the hill.
He screeched to a stop, eyes fixed on the delivery truck. He took a breath. Then another.
If he’d hit his brakes only a second or two later, he wouldn’t have stopped in time. His tiny car would have gone straight
into the side of the delivery truck.
And he never would’ve seen the truck in time if Reece hadn’t pulled the F-150 out of the way.
Around him, people were honking, the delivery truck only just now inching its way out of the intersection. He could still
hear the sirens of the police cars, maybe responding to the APB that had been put out on the F-150.
Grayson ran a hand over his face, his heart beating unusually fast.
“Reece,” he said out loud, a little helplessly. “I don’t understand.”
In the console, his phone began to ring again, Vivian Marist’s name on the caller ID. Grayson picked it up. “Grayson.”
“Evan.” Marist sounded like she’d had a terrible shock. “You have to get to AMI headquarters right away. It’s Beau Macy and
his wife, Adele. Reece Davies killed them.”