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Slowly, he rotated his finger on my clit. I was already wet from his presence, the memory of our last kiss heating the space between my thighs. He could feel my arousal. He lazily stroked me. He didn’t penetrate, he just teased me.
“What’d you say?” I said.
He grinned. “The song, Bumpkin. I want it finished.”
“It’s not worth my time.”
“What if I caught your sister’s killer?”
My heart pounded like a thunderstorm on a tin roof. “Did you find something?”
“I did.”
I gripped his arm. “Tell me.”
He smirked, pulling out of my pants. He sucked on his glistening finger. “I chatted with the detective in charge of the case. You were right, he was holding out on you.”
“I knew it. Two-timing snake.”
“They think Elise’s death was a hit. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. Someone hired a thug to kill her.”
“Who would murder my sister?”
He shrugged. “No names yet.”
I sagged. “So you can’t find him?”
“It’s a small world. Somebody’s bound to know him. Whether they’re willing to talk will be the question.”
I grabbed his wrist. “Once you figure it out, you come straight to me.”
“Of course. How could I forget my fiancée’s wedding gift?”
“That’s all I’m askin’ for. Not diamonds or luxury vacations. Just a little vigilante justice. Should be a breeze for a man in your line of work.”
He slipped out of my grip. “I better go. Heads need to be cracked.”
I followed him like a puppy as he reached the door and disappeared behind it. He jogged down the steps and climbed into his Dodge Challenger. Smiling, he backed out of the driveway. Then his car roared down the street. A rock stuck in my throat as the taillights vanished around the corner.
NINETEEN
VIOLET
Where was Achille?
Was he all right? Should I call him? I scrolled through my list of contacts, hesitating on his name.
Miss me, Bumpkin?
Achille’s dark purr echoed in my head. I checked the time. Ten-thirty.
The past few weeks had blurred into a new normal. Strangely, Achille fit into our lives like he was meant to be there. By day, we did regular things as a family. Sometimes he went away in the afternoon, but he always came home before dinner. He’d been out all day. I paced the living room.
The scrape of a lock jolted me from my thoughts. I froze, listening as the front door opened and closed with a soft thud. Footsteps echoed through the hallway, purposeful and heavy.
Finally.
I followed him. A trail of male clothing on the floor led me to his bathroom. The running water barely masked his movements.
