Chapter Two
Nightmares plagued her.
Being chased through the parking structure, there were cars everywhere but no one to help.
A jagged breath of the killer lingered on the back of her neck, telling her he was right there.
Any moment he would reach out and grab her.
Hold her immobile while he taunted in her ear that no one could stop him.
Not the police. Not her. Not even the threat of hell itself.
Tears poured from her eyes. Fear. Desperation.
Her heart pounded out of rhythm, and it made him laugh. She was going to die.
“I’m a nice guy,” he mocked.
Her phone rang, jerking her awake, and she sat up in bed, panting as she tried to escape from that accursed dream.
Early morning light filtered through her bedroom blinds, and she was thankful it was Sunday.
That gave her one more day to figure out what to do.
She had to report it, but fear dueled with her ethical sense of responsibility.
Still, if it was her, she’d want the truth to come out.
Shaking off the stymied self-loathing, she saw Betsy’s name on the incoming call and answered.
“Hello?”
“What happened to you last night?” her friend asked, sounding concerned. “You disappeared.”
“I...” There was no way she could tell Betsy what had happened. She refused to drag her friend into the mess. “Got sick.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. I’m just going to rest today.”
“Hopefully, you’ll be better tomorrow. Always sucky to start the week not feeling well.”
“Yeah.”
“Call me if you need me. Okay?”
“Thanks, Betsy.”
She hung up and flopped onto her back to stare up at the ceiling.
Maybe that poor woman’s body had been found.
With hope, she grabbed her remote and clicked on the television hoping to see if they identified the woman who was killed, only to discover .
.. nothing. Flipping channels, she thought for sure it would be mentioned somewhere.
Los Angeles was big, but the gruesome death of a young woman should’ve at least garnered a mention.
Turning it off, she grabbed her phone and put into the search bar the Sinclair Club and death, and got nothing.
This terrified her even more, because how do you cover something like that up? She should go to the police. Maybe if she went to a different one other than West Hollywood it’d be safe. Besides, the man had a hand tattoo. Maybe that would be super easy to spot. Surely,
The plan she had was solid. Rising, she hurried through her shower and dressed, then headed upstairs.
In the old days, they would’ve called the place a boarding house.
Cora rented the room and had breakfast with the rest of the occupants.
The place was run by a nice couple in their seventies.
It was clean, convenient, and best of all, cheap enough to survive in one of the most expensive cities on the planet.
“Good morning,” greeted Mrs. Winterson.
The other two people also greeted her as she sat down. On the table rested a stack of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and toast. Breakfasts were always the same.
“Morning,” she said back, reaching for the carafe of coffee to pour herself a cup.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” Julie, one of the tenants, observed.
“I had nightmares,” she admitted.
“That sucks,” Tom, the other tenant, added.
She nodded, drinking the strong, black brew. A tad too bitter, perhaps, but worth it.
“Hey, didn’t you have your company party last night?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “At the Sinclair Club.”
“Oh, ritzy!” Julie leaned closer. “Run by the very dangerous but very handsome Hades Sinclair.”
“Hades?”
“God of the underworld,” Tom added. He was a schoolteacher. “People forget he was the man who ruled over Tartarus, not what the place was called.”
“I know who Hades of Greek mythology was,” she said dryly. “But I’ve never heard of Hades Sinclair, though.”
“Not surprised,” Mrs. Winterson said as she sat down at one end of the table. “He’s a drug kingpin.”
“Now, Mother, don’t be spreading gossip,” Mr. Winterson added as he walked into the dining room.
It was always weird to Cora when they called each other mother and father.
“Not gossip, Father. The man is dangerous. People end up having accidents who think they can bring him down.”
Cora’s mind suddenly went to the parking structure attached to the Club.
What if this dangerous Hades was the killer?
Was that why there wasn’t any mention of the dead woman in the news?
Kingpins paid off cops, right? They were wealthy, powerful men.
If she went to the cops, would he retaliate? Now she was rethinking her whole plan.
“Do you think a kingpin has people in his pocket?” she asked. “Like the police?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Winterson said. “You can’t get to the top if you don’t have people looking the other way.”
Every thought in her head about going to the police shrank down so much they blinked out of existence.
She couldn’t risk it. She wasn’t brave enough to face a kingpin or the wrong end of a gun.
After breakfast, she helped clean up and then went to her room and stayed there for the rest of the day.
Trying not to think of a young woman whose life was cut short in a horrible, gruesome way.
If her body was gone, her family would never know. Would they even care?
That weighed heavy on her heart.
****
Hades watched the footage once more, trying to determine if he recognized anything about the hooded figure.
The woman fell, instant death when she landed, and the man fled.
That’s when his little red-headed assailant came into frame.
She was shaking like a leaf, her hands covering her mouth in shock.
A noise must have spooked her because she spun around, searching, and Hades realized he hated the fear he saw.
He paused and enlarged the picture of her face.
She wasn’t a classical beauty, but there was a vulnerability that appealed to his sadistic side.
To reframe, it wasn’t the fear itself he disliked, it was the fact he wasn’t the one who put it there.
Acheron appeared in the doorway of his home office and Hades flicked his gaze from her to him.
“I’ve got a name.”
Hades held up his hand and Acheron approached, handing over a tablet.
He read over the information. Cora Charles, aged twenty-five.
Worked in the mail room at the LC Group.
Her picture was from her employee ID, and he couldn’t help but stare at the colorized version.
Her hair was a subtle red with highlights of copper woven through it.
Her eyes were a little unusual with a light brown center encircled by a band of deep, dark chocolate.
The glasses she wore only managed to make them appear big and innocent.
A restless feeling moved under his skin.
“And the victim?” he inquired.
“Dr. Michaels has identified her as Erin Morris. Worked at LC group as an assistant to one of the managers. No priors. Had an ex-boyfriend who hadn’t been in the picture for over a year.”
Hades frowned. “Crime of passion?”
“Possibly. Would you like for Dr. Michaels to inform her next of kin?”
“Yes, but have him raise her blood alcohol level and label it as a tragic accident.”
“Will do, Boss,” Acheron replied, then turned and left him alone once more.
Settling back in his chair, he returned his attention to Cora Charles and decided he was going to have to interview her about what she saw. Whether she wanted to or not.