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I groan. “Ugh, I don’t know. It felt so staged, you know?”
She rolls her eyes as I pour myself a coffee. “It’s scripted TV, Fumi. Anyway,” she shrugs, “I thought you killed it.”
“Well, thank you,” I grin.
“Oh, shit, speaking of killed…”
I frown as she pulls closer to me.
“Did you hear about Dwayne Halbertson?”
I grimace, remembering the piece of shit who walked on a technicality after raping and killing Kasey Cruz.
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Murdered,” Cassidy grimaces. “In his own apartment, too.”
“I hope they catch whoever it was so that they can give them a medal,” I mutter.
Cassidy clinks her coffee mug to mine. “Cheers to that.”
“When was all this?”
“Last night.”
Something flickers in the back of my mind.
“Anyway, I gotta run and get these deposition transcripts to Alistair’s office. Later, TV star.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Later.”
I’m shaking a little as I walk back to my office and quietly close the door. I sit at my desk, my pulse thudding dully in my ears as I open my laptop.
You’re crazy.
I have to be. And yet, no matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t stop the little alarm blaring quietly in the back of my head.
That alarm gets a little louder when I google Dwayne Halbertson’s name. It swells to a jangling wail when my eyes land on the address.
Please no.
My heart is racing as I copy Dwayne’s address from the article into Google Maps and then click on street view, showing me images of the building and its surroundings.
And my hand flies to my mouth.
Oh God.
That’s the curb where my cab driver dropped me off. That’s the alley I walked down, where I was stalked by that creep with a knife—who then disappeared into thin air except for a pool of blood.
Holy fucking shit.
That was Dwayne’s apartment.
I’ve spent two months telling myself the man I followed that night was just a man I thought was Gabriel. That my husband really did just go to the office that night, as he sometimes does. That the man I followed into Brooklyn was some random guy.
