Murders aren’t something I often dabble in, but my face doesn’t whiten as much as Hunter’s when a photograph of a man dangling from a steel batten pops up on my laptop's screen. “Who is that?”
“Osmond Delkeith.”
The name doesn’t ring a bell until my eyes stray to a document on my desk.
He was a registered bidder for Callie.
“The Popovs have their stuff locked up tight, but Callie’s sale wasn’t going to be Osmond’s first purchase. His last purchase was—”
“Emmy Orlov.”
Hunter grunts out an agreeing groan before disclosing, “The digital imprint on the file exposes that the photograph of Osmond’s supposed suicide was only taken moments ago. He could still be alive.” He stops, swallows, then starts again, “Although I really hope he isn’t.”
Image after image fills my laptop's screen. They all show the same thing—young female victims brutally disfigured and assaulted. Some of the beatings are so severe their faces are unrecognizable.
“Accept Hugo’s offer to register him as a bidder.” Before Hunter can advise caution again, I add, “I’ll only use him if I get locked out of the proceedings.”
It takes him a moment, but he eventually clues on to my concerns. “If the Popovs believe this is your way of culling the competition, they’ll withdraw your tender.”
I’m unsure if he can still see me, but I jerk up my chin. “After seeing how cruel men in this industry are, that’s the last thing we want.” I wait for the grinding of his back molars to stop sounding out of the speakers of my phone before requesting him to send me the movement sheets for Isabelle last night. “They’re usually on my desk before I head home, but Hugo must have lost track of time.” I sit straighter in my chair when a bunch of garble booms out of my laptop speaker. “Hunter…”
He swallows harshly before advising, “I thought Hugo had told you. Izzy didn’t go home last night.”
“What do you mean?” Nothing but pure unbridled rage highlights my tone. “Did Hugo lose her in traffic?” That isn’t uncommon. The foot traffic in Ravenshoe is as bad as the stream of cars that forever clog the streets.
The pop of my knuckles cracking into place bounces around my home office when Hunter answers, “No. Not exactly. As far as we can tell, she didn’t go home at all.”
The increase of my pulse is heard in my question. “Did you scan the surveillance tapes from the lobby of her building?”
He clears away the images on the laptop before replacing them with a video playing at ten times the speed. “Yes, multiple times. She never came home.”
“What about the back entrance?” My heart rate is so high my words come out with a quiver. I’m panicked, but I am also as mad as hell. I’m foolish when plagued with jealousy, but it has nothing on Isabelle’s responses when she’s prodded by envy.
Hunter nods. “I even heat scanned her apartment. Nothing came back.”
“Fuck!” I usually exhibit more restraint than I’m harnessing right now, but my outburst can’t be helped. Hugo had one job—to keep Isabelle in his sight at all times.
This is why I generally do everything myself.
After a quick exhale, I ask, “Where is she usually at this time of the morning?”
As I snatch my keys off my desk like I’m not decked out in a pair of dirty running shorts and a sweaty shirt, Hunter correlates Isabelle’s movement sheets until he pings the perfect location for an accountant to get an early morning pick-me-up. Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven.
“Have Hugo meet me there.”
My sprint for my car almost drowns out what Hunter replies, “He’s already there. He’s been there all night waiting for Izzy.”
His confession lessens my agitation, but don’t think it will see me go easy on Hugo. I’m as irritated as fuck, and usually, the only way to end that is to terminate someone.
This is another reason why I should have never become friendly with my employees.
It makes firing them ten times harder.
With my love of the gas pedal prominent and the traffic light due to the early hour, I make it to Ravenshoe in a record-setting time. I park in the disabled bay two spots down from Harlow’s bakery, toss open my door, then hotfoot it into the bakery that’s bustling with a lot more clientele since Cormack decommissioned the bakeries he put in direct competition with hers.
“Isaac, hey,” Harlow greets, her voice chipper when she spots my entrance. “What can I get you?” After serving a customer a plate of eggs, pancakes, and hash browns, she stops next to me. “Who are you looking for?”
“Isabelle,” I snap out, my fuse short since I failed to stumble onto a single enticing brunette in the packed floor space. “She didn’t go home last night.”
