Page 125 of Painted Truths

The scent of soap and citrus assaults my nostrils as my sense of smell brings me back to the night I know he’s referring to. My stomach roils dangerously, and I frantically try to think of what I can say or do to make this stop.

To make him stop.

“You wanted me.”

Father T’s comforting old phrases yet again come into my mind. That man really does have a saying for everything.

You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Liv.

I shove my disdain, my hurt, my anger, my frustration, my skin-crawling repulsion—everything I’m feeling, deep down, and opt for the honeyed approach, injecting as much pleading kindness into my voice as I can.

“Why are you doing this, Samuel? You don’t have to do this. I can help you, my friend. You don’t need to go along with whatever she’s making you do.”

And in a flash, his personality flips as he gets right up in my face, his eyes burning fanatically.

“Because you fucked him.” He snarls the words at me as spittle flies from his mouth, landing on my face and making me retch as he draws up to his full, formidable height.

“He took something that was meant to be mine, so I’ve taken you from him in return.”

Tilting his head to one side while looking at me with such intensity, I can’t help but squirm under the scrutiny. When he speaks again, his tone is soft once more, almost indulgent.

“Besides, dearest Olivia, little Mila here and even the almighty Lauren DeMarco herself are surplus to my plans. Now that I have set things in motion, we can be together just like I’d always planned. She made me wait—kept me on a leash for the perfect moment.”

His face contorts when he grits out, “Until him. And as a result of her delay, he stole the innocence that belonged to me and for that”—he raises his shoulder indifferently—“she’ll be the first to go.”

With those words, he brandishes a gun from the waistband of his pants while grinning maniacally, our conversation at an apparent end.

“Time to play.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Henry

Opening my eyes, I find sunlight streaming into the room and no Olivia in sight.

This most assuredly will not do.

Rolling out of bed, I check the bathroom first, followed by the rest of the apartment, and finally land on a handwritten note on the table by the elevator doors.

I dial her number, only to have the call go straight to voicemail.

My brow furrows deeply, and a chill of unease creeps up my spine when I see it's not long past 9 am, but this note could have been written an age since. Grabbing the phone, I ring down to the lobby and Garry, a long-standing employee, answers.

“Morning, Garry.”

“Good morning, Mr DeMarco. How may I help you?”

I chuckle quietly, suddenly feeling like an overactive bunny boiler, but ask my question, nonetheless. “I’m wondering if you’d perhaps seen a blonde woman leaving the premises this morning?”

“I’m afraid I have not, sir. I’ve been here since before 8 am and not one person has come or gone since I’ve been on duty.”

Thanking him, I hang up, feeling justified in what I’m about to do.

Grabbing some clothes, I quickly dress, intent on going in search of her. Unfortunately, the elevator ride is interminably longer than usual, even though I know that's impossible.

Stepping into the foyer, I almost collide with someone walking onto the lift.

"Nate?"