Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I steeled myself for what I might find, knowing that a stalker, once they escalated to breaking in, yeah, they didn't want to sit and chat over tea and cookies. No, they wanted to get what they thought was their man or woman, take what they felt was rightfully theirs. And seeing as it wasn't rightfully theirs, they took it by force.
Nothing, fucking nothing worse than rape.
Last goddamn thing in the world I wanted to walk into the aftermath of.
A low, threatening growl stopped me dead, freezing my heart in my chest for a moment. Dogs were a wildcard. Sometimes they just growled because they knew they were supposed to but were never the kind who could lunge. But you couldn't count on that. Many would charge.
I turned slowly to see a Pitbull standing in the kitchen doorway, shoulders hunched, but head lowered, letting out the growl again. Seeing me look at him, he whined slightly and moved a step back.
Deciding he was likely not a threat, I looked around the small space before setting my sights on the stairs, going up them sideways so I could see below me in case the dog decided to find his balls when I wasn't facing him as I made my way up to the second floor where, I imagined, the bedroom was located.
I could smell it.
That was how long I had been in the fucking business. Before I was even halfway up the stairs, I smelled blood.
Reminding myself to breathe, not to be pissed that a situation like this had slipped through our fingers even though it wasn't our usual kind of case.
I stepped into the doorway, and I heard it. Again, I had been in my line of work for too fucking long. I heard the slide of the safety.
My arm raised fully as I took the last stair, aiming in the direction where I heard the sound.
Right at Aven fucking Armstrong.
She wasn't what I had been expecting, not that I knew what to expect in the first place.
She was in her late twenties or very early thirties with long brown hair cut in the way that all women had their hair these days - long and layered to frame the face. And what a face too. Fuck. It was soft and sweet with a stubborn set to her dark brows and a somewhat pouty look to her lips. Her eyes, a deep, deep blue were on the large side, giving her a doe-ish look.
Pretty.
She was really fucking pretty.
That aside, she was pressed back up against her nightstand, knees to chest, one arm raised with a Smith & Wesson® SDVE nine-millimeter in her hand.
But every goddamn inch of her was shaking so violently that she looked like she was having a seizure.
My gun lowered, and I held up my free hand. "Not gonna hurt you, Aven," I said, keeping my eyes on her, wanting to make sure she wasn't so freaked that she would shoot me for the fuck of it.
"You don't look like a cop," she managed through chattering teeth.
"That's 'cause I'm not. My name is Quin Baird. I'm not a cop, but I'm here to..."
"Quinton Baird," she repeated in that same awful, terrified tone. "You wouldn't take my case."
"My receptionist thought I should look in on you. So here I am. Can you maybe put that gun down now?" I asked, putting my own away, holding both hands up toward her.
She looked down at it, seeming almost shocked to find it in her hands, then scrambled to put the safety back on and tossed it several feet to her side, wrapping her arms around her legs. "He..." she said, shaking her head, her gaze going to the side of me, toward the end of the bed.
And that was when I let my gaze move around, and I saw it - the source of the blood.
There was a body on the floor.
And, holy fuck, was there blood.
It soaked through the man's clothes and formed a huge red circle on the carpet. She had gotten what seemed like four shots into him.
It certainly didn't escape my notice that his fucking dick was out either.
And given that she was in a nightgown, there was a good chance the mother fucker hurt her.
"Alright," I said, tone calm. Again, in my business, bodies weren't something to freak out about. I'd seen more than most fucking morticians had. "Aven, babe, look at me, alright?" I asked, ducking my head as I moved toward where she was sitting, her head buried against her knees and, judging by the sniffling, crying. "Aven," I repeated, reaching out to touch the side of her leg, making her spring up on a small yelp. "Hey, alright. Not gonna hurt you. I just need you to answer some questions. Just hold it together for five minutes and then you can let it all out, okay?"