Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
For just a moment, the look in Lucia’s steely-grey eyes turns almost black with hatred.
Just the tiniest slip of her mask—because we both know where one of her sons is.
In the dirt. Forever.
The murderer a murder victim himself.
And his untimely demise happened with the Raleigh PD and not locally, but our badges aren’t that different. It’s not hard to tell what she thinks of us.
Lucia Arrendell blames me.
She holds the entire Redhaven police crew responsible for her son.
Still, she pins her mask back in place, her smile cooling, once more the grand duchess talking to the plebeians whose names she never bothers to remember.
“You know, Sheriff—”
“Captain,” I correct. “Redhaven PD isn’t affiliated with the county sheriff.”
Her lips twitch sourly before that frozen smile returns. “Captain. Xavier’s off in Dubai, closing a new real estate deal, you know. And Vaughn—oh, you know, he’s always too busy to call home to his mother. Who knows.”
Yeah, I’ve wondered about that for a while.
“Aleksander, though, he should be around here somewhere. I thought I passed him in the hall just a minute ago?” Lucia makes a great show of looking around, then raises her voice. “Aleksander! Darling, are you around?”
I just watch her skeptically.
Montero looks almost bored, hovering as silent and watchful as a crow. There’s something especially odd in his eyes today as he glances at the body of Cora Lafayette. The dead woman swings as Henri and Micah work carefully at the knotted drape tied to the banister.
Lucia clucks her tongue, staring down the hall.
“Aleksander? Come on out. I know you’re both there.”
Both?
I get my answer when a girlish giggle answers.
A few seconds later, he comes shambling around the corner of the hallway branching off from the upper walkway.
He’s not alone.
Aleksander Arrendell is the impeccable portrait of a man who’s graced nearly every fashion magazine cover in the world. His tailored linen shirt hangs off him over the latest designer jeans, his longish platinum-blond hair swept artfully to one side. His face is slim and fox-like. The same otherworldly green eyes that run in the family complete the eerie look.
I’ve never interacted much with Aleksander, but I know him on sight the same way I know the rest of this little town.
The woman on his arm, that’s another story.
I know her so well my fucking heart plummets to my knees.
Rosalind Sanderson.
Little sister to my missing friend Ethan—and to her.
The woman whose name I won’t let my mind even whisper.
And it hurts like hell to see Rosalind this way, her skimpy silver dress half-falling off her bony frame, her honey-blonde hair a disarrayed mess, her lipstick a smear.
She’s damn near falling over in her strappy heels, barely held up by Aleksander’s firm arm perched around her shoulders. Her dark-green eyes look dilated and unfocused.
Mostly, it’s the nails, though.
Her nails are painted screaming red, loud and blinding.
The same glossy shade as the dead woman’s, weirdly enough.
That doesn’t sit right with me.
They’re both staggering, too, clearly either drunk or high.
High, I’d guess, considering they both glance at the dangling body like two teenagers sneaking a naughty peek at some X-rated film they aren’t supposed to see.
It’s a struggle not to wince when they both burst into a laughing fit, nuzzling at each other like catnip-drunk felines.
Fuck.
Part of me wants to rip Ros away from him and send her right home.
Only, I haven’t seen her in a while.
Not since the last time my little girl Nell got mad at me and “ran away” to sulk with Ros until she felt like speaking to me again.
I’ve been too busy with my promotion to captain and—if I’m being honest with myself—avoiding painful memories associated with her sister.
Hell, for the longest time growing up, I thought of Ros as my baby sister.
When a man does that, he doesn’t much like the idea of his baby sister dating Aleksander fucking Arrendell of all people.
She really couldn’t pick one of the nice, boring boys her own age?
I also don’t like the change that’s come over her one bit.
That’s not Ros.
The Ros I knew wouldn’t be able to look at a dead body without breaking down in tears.
Not hysterics.
She used to be the shyest thing, full of air and sun, innocent and withdrawn. The girl in front of me looks more like a stranger wearing Ros’ skin.
Her ma’s not gonna like this either—if Angela even knows.
Goddammit, does Ros know Angela’s back in the hospital?
I must be wearing some kind of sour look I can’t hide. Because Ros stumbles to a halt as she catches sight of me.
All the color drains from her face and her eyes widen as she stares up at me.
“O-ohhh,” she falters. “Hi, Grant!”
“Ros,” I grind out, reminding myself she’s not my little sister.
Not my kin, meaning I have no right to say anything, much less condemn her dating life.