Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I gnaw the tip of my pen, staring down at the pages.
Damn, this doesn’t feel right.
On the surface, it makes perfect sense. It’s an easy story.
The younger Arrendell brat throws another private charity gala, bringing in outsiders from God only knows where. Then this girl shows up with her junk or gets it from a coked-up stranger, goes a little too hard, gets herself way too high, and stumbles down the hill to Delilah’s house, barges in, collapses and dies when the drugs hit her heart.
I can even picture the path she’d have taken. The mansion looms over where the streets blend into the forest on that side of town, and there are a few spots that make for good hiking trails.
Wouldn’t be hard to navigate even if it was a dark, steep, strange place.
But what the hell was she doing here from LA?
Oh, and she was wearing heels.
If that’s our story, then technically it’d be a suicide by overdose, accidental or not.
The problem is, it’s too easy.
Plus, there’s the fact that Delilah said she saw somebody running away the minute she pulled up to the house. Maybe someone who knew that body was in there and wanted to cover it up.
Hell, maybe somebody who put that body there in the first place.
I’ve been thinking about that ever since she told me about glimpsing someone on the property, and that instinct drags me to a theory that just keeps getting stronger.
Technically, Emma Santos’ case should be cut and dry.
Nothing left to do but track down her next of kin, notify them, and officially declare this an accidental death by OD.
Only, the dead girl’s heels are stuck in my brain like pointed daggers.
Stumbling down from that big old house through the woods wouldn’t have been easy in those shoes—not without breaking an ankle first—especially in a drug haze.
Yeah, fuck it.
I’ll leave the case open a little while longer.
Do a little digging of my own.
Keep things quiet for now.
I type a note in the digital case file and leave a matching sticky note on top of the printout in the folder.
Unsolved. Investigating potential theories, suspects. Maintain confidentiality and wait to notify next of kin.
I’ll have to get the captain or Chief Bowden to sign off on that, but I doubt that’ll be a problem.
My hunches rarely miss the mark and they know it.
I should be getting home now, though. Maybe swing by The Rookery to check on Miss New York. Something tells me to keep a closer eye on her.
That clingy ex of hers could be a problem in more ways than one, even if he’s not connected to Emma’s murder.
Plus, I don’t like the fact that Ulysses Arrendell won’t stop orbiting her. I need to question him about Emma, too, even if that’s like talking to the wall.
If she was one of his dates, sugar baby, evening fling, that’s important. Especially if he knows which one of his guests could’ve supplied her with cocaine.
With the way the Arrendell brothers jet around in high society with models and actresses, it’s plausible. Doesn’t make him culpable.
I’m sure he’ll wiggle out of any drug charges by claiming it was all her. That they were just having a nice little how-do-you-do when she broke out the hard drugs.
Still.
It’ll paint a clearer picture of what the hell happened.
Maybe it’ll even help me get over this urge to pick him up and chuck him as far away from Delilah Clarendon as possible.
Something ain’t right about that man.
Hell, the whole family.
Trouble is, big money helps them be discreet and bribe their way into hearts and minds, throwing around fat donations everywhere and aligning themselves with just the right causes so the world lines up to kiss their rich asses.
The most you hear are rumors and gossip and conspiracies that make them out to be the spiritual heirs to the Marquis de Sade. Thrilling dungeons, orgies, mock human sacrifices, that kind of thing.
Nothing realistic enough to put any stock in.
Definitely nothing you can prove.
The tabloids come calling every year and they’ve never turned up anything but breathless whispers.
All word of mouth, threads by people acting like teenagers on Twitter—if they aren’t really teens to start with.
I think the bastards like it.
The imaginary scandals give their reputation a touch of naughty excitement that makes every single girl—and a few not so single ladies—shiver a little when they’re in town. That’s what the brothers are after more than anything. More bad boy cred.
Lord knows the Arrendells never invite any locals to those all-night soirees.
Anyway, whoever they want to fuck in their little leather dungeons is their business.
I don’t care about that.
I care about the people they hurt and sweep under the rug.
I care about the people I’ve lost because of them.
I can’t prove shit. I can’t.
I got nothing. Not even a body.