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He entered his passcode and opened his phone. He had things to check on.
“I’m not.” Her tone was no-nonsense but not necessarily irritated.
“Me neither. I mean, to the Outer Banks. I’m from North Carolina, though. Moved with my wife—she got a transfer.” Her hard-edged glare softened at his disarming lie.
“Not a terrible place to transfer,” she commented.
“Fiona?” the barista called, and lightly placed her drink on the counter.
He cocked his head. “Fiona. That Irish? My wife’s Irish. On her mom’s side. Kiera.”
She retrieved her cup and eyed him again. “Enjoy your day.”
“You too,” he said, and held out his phone a measure as he studied his garden girls. All beautiful and right under Agent Fiona Kelly’s nose. Oh yes, he knew all about her and the entire SCU team. While they had a solid track record of catching killers, they’d never been up against a man like the Artist. He was unrivaled. Unmatched.
They were completely in the dark, but he planned to bring himself into the light.
In due time.
All she had to do was cast one tiny peek at his phone and she’d see his girls. She could use that gun to subdue him, force him to his knees in surrender. No one else would need to die.
She didn’t give the phone a single glance.
In real time, his next-to-newest flower huddled in a heap weeping in her room. She’d been like that all morning too, bringing down his mood. As if her condition was his fault. He’d made it clear what giving herself to him entailed, like he’d made it abundantly clear with all the others and his newest garden girl to replace Lily Hayes.
They chose him. They gave themselves to him.
Now she was nothing but a whiny mess he’d have to fix later.
“Art,” the barista called.
He received his drink, glancing at Agent Kelly and the big guy, Asa Kodiak, who thought he was large and in charge. He wasn’t.
The Artist was.
And he was coming for Tiberius Granger.
Passing the counter, he plucked a napkin from the holder and purposely dropped his phone, the camera on and his lovely garden girls in their hanging baskets awaiting him to come and command them to bloom.
Agent Kodiak bent and swiped his phone from the floor. A thrill zinged through the Artist’s middle, goading him to shout, dance, do a victory pump in the air. The girls were in the agent’s hands; he only had to ignore politeness and peek.
“Here, man,” Agent Kodiak said and handed him his phone. Idiot. Yet one more layer of proof that he could not be touched or outsmarted.
“Thanks. Clumsy me.” Lies. “Y’all have a nice day. Enjoy the Outer Banks.”
“You too,” Agent Kodiak mumbled, not looking up from his own phone. Agent Kelly raised her eyebrows when he turned back and caught her eye. As he neared the door, he heard Agent Kodiak say, “Stop gawking at Orlando Bloom, Fi.”
“I am not gawking, and he is not Orlando Bloom. Orlando wishes,” she muttered.
“I heard that,” Agent Kodiak replied. “Drink your coffee and look at the dead bodies instead.”
To their detriment, there would be many more dead bodies.
Chapter Four
Blue Harbor
Saturday, September 1
