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Grace likes to return home to find the dining table set and a warm bath drawn for her.
She turns around, wheeling her suitcase out to the foyer, then stops, flashing me a glorious smile full of white straight teeth. “Surprise me.”
The knocks on my door are persistent, yet oddly apologetic.
Like the person behind it doesn’t want me to open. And for good reason. Not many people live to tell the tale of how they woke me up at ass-crack o’clock without notice.
What time is it, anyway?
Patting for my nightstand clock in the darkness, I bang on its head. The time says 3:18 a.m.Christ.Who the fuck decides three in the morning is a legitimate time for a social call?
Wait a minute. I actuallydoknow someone as careless and reckless. And I’m happy to punch his face all the way to Antarctica for this disturbance.
Another bout of knocks sounds from the door.
Who let him in?This is why I pay an offensive amount of money every month for around-the-clock security. So peopledon’tknock on my door in the middle of the night. Whoever is in charge of reception tonight is going to get the boot.
The doorbell chimes. Once. Twice. Three times.
“I’m coming.” Never have I said these words with so little enthusiasm.
“Someone better be dead ...,” I mutter as I shove my feet into my slippers, dragging myself to the door, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a scornful scowl.
Flinging my door open, I start with, “Listen here, you waste of worldly resources. I don’t care if you’re leaving for Africa on Monday and Christian doesn’t want you to bring your hookup to his house like it’s a low-budget Airbnb ...”
The rest of the words die in my throat. It isn’t Riggs. In fact, it isn’t anyone I know.
On my threshold are two people—a man and a woman—in dark-blue NYPD uniforms and grave frowns. They both look like they’ve just swallowed a full-size hedgehog.
I’ve had my brush with law enforcement in the past, but it is usually the IRS and SEC who rain trouble on my ass, not the honest-to-God police officers. I’m a white-collar man, with white-collar problems. Perhaps someone decided to off themselves next door and they want to know if I heard anything. Damn socialites and their chaotic lifestyles.
Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Who died?”
“I’m so sorry, Mr.Corbin.” The woman bows her head.
Well, then. Someonediddie, and it’s someone I know.
I’m fresh out of parents, and my social circle is limited to those I absolutely must tolerate. I’m guessing ... Riggs? He seems dumb enough to find his immature death. Maybe a Tinder date gone wrong.
Can’t be Christian. He is too responsible to get himself into trouble.
The man says, “I’m Officer Damien Lopez, and this is my colleague, Officer Hannah Del Gallo.”
“Thanks for the niceties. Now move on to the punch line,” I bite out, not in the mood for chitchat.
“Are you Gracelynn Langston’s fiancé?” he asks.
My heart, untouchable merely seconds before, now feels like it’s being clenched in their fists.Not her.
“Yeah. Why?”
“We’re very sorry.” The woman bites on her lips. Her chin trembles. “But your fiancée was involved in a plane crash. She died on impact.”
It’s not true.
I can’t really explain why it isn’t true; I just know that it’s not.
Which is why I don’t call anyone.
