Page 4 of Venomous Games

I glance back down at the body, letting my gaze move over the details again, slower this time. The angle of attack, the location of the wound, the lack of anything extra. No rage or panic, just execution. Whoever did this didn’t just want him dead—they wanted it done right.

“Check all the street cameras, cars, pedestrians, businesses, everything and everyone that has come into this area in the last twelve hours,” I tell him.

“Do you still think it’s a woman?” Rolland asks quietly. We haven’t given that theory away yet. But he’s right, whoever it is, is damn good.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, and glance back at the body. At one point, I thought it could possibly be a woman, with the way the killings took place. Men are messy, whereas women are … well, cleaner. But it’s just a hunch, because whoever it is never leaves a trace of themselves.

“We need answers sooner rather than later,” he says. “Cap is getting pissed.”

“I know,” I remind him. I’m in the same meetings he is, and this killer has been doing this for years.

And we still have no solid leads as to their identity.

I look past the tape, at the lights, the crowd, the restless city pressing in around us, and feel that familiar pull in my gut that tells me the killer is either extremely lucky or very skilled.

There is no doubt in my mind that it’s going to be the latter.

THREE

MAVEN

“So, I know you never go to these things, and usually I would never allow you to be there, but I desperately need some backup,” Carrie says after letting herself into my apartment, not even bothering to knock. She pauses just inside the doorway, smoothing her hands down the sides of her black dress like she’s already stepping into the night, not my space.

I eye her as she strides past me and into my closet where she scans the contents. She doesn’t hesitate, never does, and heads straight for my shoe wall, fingers trailing lightly over the rows like she’s greeting old friends. Luckily for her, we’re the same shoe size. I don’t think she’s ever bought a pair of shoes in her life.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, relaxing on the velvet couch I have in the middle of my closet, one arm draped lazily over the back and my legs crossed at the ankles. I’m watching her like she’s entertainment.

Where does all my money go, you ask? Into this room; my wall of expensive shoes proves that.

“You know how I go to the galas,” she starts, already crouching to scan the lower shelves, her hair falling forward over her shoulder.

“Yeeesss…” I drag the word out, raising a brow at her.

“Well, I never go alone; that would be stupid,” she says with an eye roll, as if I should already understand. She plucks a pair of pink red-bottom heels from the shelf and then slips them on without asking. She straightens, rolling her shoulders back, balancing perfectly in the sky-high heels, then glances down at her feet. She smiles, happy with herself.

“Bailey asked that I bring someone for his friend.”

I let out a short huff of a laugh, shaking my head as I sit forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees. “And you honestly think you should bring me?”

She turns to look at me. Her hand goes to her hip as she locks her gaze with mine. “Yes. You never have fun.”

I lean forward more, brows pulling together. “I do have fun.”

She shakes her head. “Killing is not something you should consider fun,” she says, her expression flattening into something more serious.

The playfulness drops just enough to notice. “You know I don’t ask you to go to any of this kind of stuff because this is where I get connections,” she continues, pacing a few slow steps across the closet now, heels clicking softly against the floor. “And I know you don’t like to have anything to do with what I do.” She glances back at me over her shoulder, watching for a reaction.

She’s right. While clients have to go through her to hire me, they also don’t know it’s her who does the hiring. You see, when she communicates with potential clients, most think it’s a man they’re speaking to. Not only does she disguise her voice when she talks to them, but she plays the innocent act well. Some assume she’s just the first point of contact, wholly unaware that they’ll be dealing with her throughout the entire process.

“But please,” she adds, turning fully back to me now, her tone shifting again, softer but calculated. She steps closer, closing the distance between us. “I like Bailey,” she says, as if that should matter, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of a chair before she stops. “And I did have another person lined up to accompany me.” She exhales, her shoulders dropping just slightly. “She pulled out on me, though.”

I study her for a second, my head tilting as I lean back again, tapping my fingers against my knee. “I have nothing to wear,” I finally say.

She freezes mid-step, then her eyes narrow just slightly. She lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, shaking her head while a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You do; don’t lie.”

I smile back, just a little. Of course I have something to wear. I love clothes, though not as much as I love heels; don’t get that fact twisted. She crosses her arms now, shifting her weight onto one hip, waiting me out like she knows she already won.

“How long do I have to get ready?” I ask on a sigh.