Page 122 of XO Karma

A bit of rustling, and Aster takes a seat next to me. “It happens to the best of us.”

“What does this even mean though? It still doesn’t give us any indication of who killed her, only that maybe, and that’s a very big maybe, she was doing more than just procuring paintings.”

“It could also just be for protection,” Aster suggests. “Maybe some of her clients were dangerous and she wanted to be prepared.”

“Lot of good that did her,” I whisper.

“Do you think Liam would give you her case file?”

I release a heavy sigh. “Possibly.” After a ton of explaining. I could just steal it, but there’s also a part of me that’s sick of all the lies.

“Maybe there’s something in it about who her last clients were before her death.”

“Maybe.” I’m trying not to feel defeated, but every answer opens a hundred more questions.

One Day Later

Me

where are you?

Liam

What are you MY keeper now?

Me

….

Liam

At home in my office

Strolling through the door, I hold my head high. I need Violet’s file, and I’m not letting Liam give me no for an answer. His desk is empty, but Jackson stands by the window. Shit. I didn’t realize he’d be here. His cruiser’s not outside.

“Hey,” I say to Jackson.

“Hey.” He smiles. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” Great, in fact. I’m fucking one serial killer and unable to locate the other. “Where’s Liam? He said he was home.”

“He was just grabbing something from⁠—”

“Hey, Lil,” my brother says, walking through the door, rolling up his sleeves. “What do you need?”

“Nice to see you too.” I smile sweetly, and he cocks a brow. “Fine. I would like to look over Violet’s file.” Jackson snorts, heading for the door. I glare at him. So much for witnesses.

“See you at the car,” Jackson tells Liam, exiting the room, and seconds later, the front door slams shut.

Liam crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Because she was my best friend, and I…” My voice trails off. “I just want to read through it.” He breaks eye contact, opening a drawer and digging around. Turning to me, he holds out a small piece of paper. “What’s that?”

“The number for the station psychologist,” he says, and my jaw drops. “She said she could do a few sessions with you as a courtesy.”

I swat the paper out of his hand. Do I need a therapist? Probably. But I damn sure am not going to tell a state-appointed one about my current lifestyle and how it turns me on when my boyfriend—er, fuck buddy—mentions spying on me while I masturbate. “I asked for Violet’s case file, not advice. I know you have an extra copy here.” I’ve caught him reading it late at night more times than I can count.

“You need to get closure. Acceptance.” Hypocrite.