Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
The thought sends ripples of fear through me. The cold, naked fact steals my breath.
He can do anything he fancies to me, and if I value the lives of the people in my life, I don’t have a choice but to let him.
Shit.
I’m so fucked.
Literally.
Pushing my hair out of my face, I straighten my spine.
I should have a bolt and chain fitted to the door. I can change the lock. Only, that won’t keep him out. He’ll probably break it down. But I can’t let him use me. I have to be cleverer. If I can’t beat him in strength, I have to fight with my brainpower. I must find a way of getting myself out of this mess.
The resolve calms me somewhat. Taking strength from that, I push off the wall and clean the apartment to stay busy while I rack my brain for solutions. By the time the place is squeaky clean, I’ve only come up with two possibilities.
Either I have to kill Saverio or blackmail him.
Seeing that I have nothing to blackmail him with and that I don’t have it in me to kill a bug, let alone a human being, that leaves me with nothing.
Despondent, I try not to think about what happened. Instead, I count out the money I have left, pull on a cardigan and sneakers, and go to the corner store to buy fresh pasta and basil. After cooking dinner, I deliver a plate of pasta with homemade pesto sauce to Livy, who opens the door with a strained face.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“This business with Frank Lewis kept me up all night.” She steps aside. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a sentimental old woman who can’t believe he’s gone just like that. Come on in.” She glances at the plate in my hand. “What do you have there?”
“It’s nothing fancy, but I thought you may not feel like cooking.”
“You’re a darling,” she says, taking my arm and pulling me inside. “You’re one of the good ones, Anya.”
Swallowing my guilt, I don’t reply. While she locks the door, I go to the kitchen and leave the plate on the table.
“Have a seat,” she says when she joins me. “I’ll make us some tea.”
I take in her rickety frame as I sit down at the table. “Have you eaten?”
She waves a heavily ringed hand before bustling over to the stove and grabbing the kettle. “After everything that’s happened, I don’t have an appetite.”
“You must take care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry.” She fills the kettle with water from the tap. “I won’t let your generous effort go to waste.” After carrying it back to the stove and lighting the gas, she turns to face me. “What did they tell you at the office?”
“Nothing other than what the police who questioned us said.”
Frowning, she says with a thoughtful air, “His wife said he carried a panic button.”
“He did?”
That meant he expected trouble. It explains why he was so jumpy.
“He activated it just before the attack. That’s the reason the police got to the scene so fast. His security company alerted them. The security personnel arrived five minutes after the police on the scene.” She fixes a non-seeing gaze on the wall and mutters, “It must be terrible to have a job like that, to give people such bad news, telling them someone they loved died.”
“How is she doing?” I ask, fumbling with the hem of my cardigan. “His wife?”
Livy sighs. “As well as can be expected.”
I clear my throat to get rid of the lump that’s lodged there. “And the kids?”
The whistle of the kettle cuts into the space.
She switches off the gas and brings the kettle to the table. “They’re grown up and living their own lives.” Her mouth pulls down. “They weren’t that close to their father. I suppose he was always working, but you’d think they’d appreciate the opportunities he created for them. He gave them the best education money can buy.”
I ponder the question I’ve been asking myself since this morning. “Who do you think will take over the firm?”
“It’s difficult to say.” She fetches two mugs and a box of tea bags from the cupboard that she puts in front of me. “Perhaps his oldest son? I say that, but he’s a lawyer in Washington now and very successful in his own right. Accounting never interested him. Besides, his family is established there. His wife may not be keen on moving.” She lowers herself into a chair, supporting her weight with a palm on the table. “His daughter may be more inclined to sell her florist shop and move back home, but she’s never liked the accounting business.” She picks up the kettle and fills the mugs. “I assume his widow will inherit the business. Maybe she’ll promote one of the senior executives to CEO. If you ask me—”