Page 3 of Rule of Three

All of a sudden, something in my boot shifts and it works. My foot slides free, I swing my leg over, and I can finally call this nightmare of a climb?—

Riiiiiiip

The next swift breeze blows more than just the leaves free—it blows my skirt right off my ass.

I watch in horror as the fabric slides gracefully off my thighs and catches in a nearby tree limb, the black fabric fluttering in the wind like a flag announcing my presence to the entire freaking world.

Hey, look up here to find the freak on the fence!

I should have worn pants to this little B&E attempt, but the laundromat ate my only pair last night, leaving the mini skirt I found on clearance as my sole option.

Just another sign that karma’s out to get me for my transgressions, and she’s one mean bitch.

My only saving grace in this fine hour of need is that my ass is fat. If one of the guards sees my pretty peach hanging in the air, maybe they’ll be so distracted that they won’t shoot me, after all.

I cling to that hope as I barrel down the other side of the fence, moving as fast as I dare with only one boot, until I slip and fall the remaining two feet to the ground.

I hit the grass hard, yelping in my surprise. Thankfully, there’s not a soul in sight. Not a single guard patrols the grounds. No glimpse of my father strolling through the gardens.

No sign of my fiancée out here, either, thank god.

I’m not sure I could take coming face-to-face with my ex when I’m in an oversized gray sweater and the plainest gray panties in existence.

Not that I care what kind of panties he sees me in.

He shouldn’t see me in any panties. Period.

I chew the inside of my cheek as I mull over which section of the house to infiltrate. Preferably one with a bedroom, now that my cheeks are on display.

First, find pants.

Next, find my father.

And finally, get answers about what really happened to Mom.

Chapter 2

Valentina

After an uneventful sprint across the lawn, I enter the estate with total ease. The back door opens with a simple push. It’s not even locked.

At first, I’m eternally grateful. Giddy, even, like I’m a master thief who’s just broken into the richest vault in the city.

As soon as my eyes adjust to the shadows inside, however, a violent shiver runs down my spine and I regret everything.

I’ve walked straight into a morgue.

Gleaming silver tables, long enough to hold a body, neatly line one wall, with floor-to-ceiling freezers making up the wall behind them. Of all the medical instruments and machines in the room, only one stands out—the one splattered red.

Carefully, I step toward the odd one out to find dark red liquid pooled across the far end, with bloodied bandages and giant tweezers and a scalpel and a bowl with little metal bits scattered around inside and?—

I swallow hard and turn away, noping right out of there.

I’m not here to investigate or snoop around in the underbelly of the mansion. I’m here to see my father.

From where I’m standing in the middle of the room, there are two doors out of this place. My sense of direction is shit, so I pick one on a whim. Carefully turning the knob, I open the door and peer inside the room. Slivers of sunlight peek in around thick curtains, casting enough light for me to know that this is, in fact, a bedroom.

Bingo.

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