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He looks over at her, confused.
“The woman you’re waiting on.”
“Oh. Right.”
Her brows raise. “But didn’t you just say it was dangerous?”
“For her. Not for you.”
He doesn’t follow. Stan is not conscientious. With his intelligence, wealth, and moderate good looks, attentiveness is something he’s gotten by without. She often finds the higher a man’s net worth, the lower they fall on the mindful scale.
“Make sure everything is okay.”
He waves her off and takes a long sip of his tequila. “People are so flaky these days. I’m not surprised.”
“Blind date?”
“You could say that.”
She shifts in her seat. “Would you like to dance? I feel like dancing.”
Stan tilts his head. “Here?”
“Unless you know somewhere else.”
He scans the room. “There’s no dance floor.”
“Semantics,” she says, hopping off the stool. She holds out her hand.
Reluctantly, Stan takes it.
Chapter Eight
One second he’s completely satisfied, smug even, and the next his face is twisted in agony.
One thing is for sure. He isn’t expecting to see me there. This is obvious by the surprise on his face. But then there’s more, there’s something else. A friendly ease, perhaps. Like most people, he doesn’t immediately see me for what I am. Or rather,whoI am. “Well, hello,” he says, a sly smile sliding across his face.
“Hello, Stan.”
I move toward him. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”
“Sure,” he nods. He’s confused, but he’s too polite to show it. “Anything.”
As he waits for me to state my favor, he offers another smile, this one different, tighter, less sure, one that he doesn’t know—that he can’t know—will be his last.
From that point, everything goes fast. How he ends up tied to his bed, his wrists slit with a hefty amount of cocaine in his system, it’s all a blur. Both to him and me.
Chapter Nine
Ethan
“Tell us about the bad guy, Daddy.”
I glance in the rearview mirror. “How’s school going?”
“Fine,” they shout in unison.
“Now, tell us.”
