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She does as she’s told, slipping in her too-big heels as she drops the box to the floor. It lands with a thud, followed by a dull rattle. I train my gaze on it, and a feeling I know too well creeps up my shoulders and claws at my neck.
Gus whines. Poppy jiggles him on her hip.
“What’s brought you in today anyway? Unlike you to be up here, where people use their brains instead of brawn.”
But I’m not listening to my sister-in-law’s weak banter. I’m staring at the box. Large, perfectly square. Dog-eared in the corners and darker at the bottom.
Either it’s been sitting in a puddle or something wet is inside.
“Poppy,” I say quietly, “Were you expecting a delivery?”
“Hmm?” She lazily follows my gaze, then shrugs. “Don, I’m the CEO of Boston’s largest capital venture company. I’m always expecting a delivery.”
“I need you to leave the room.”
“What?”
“Leave the room, Pops. Take Gus with you and get Lorcan in here.”
When I pull the leather gloves from my pocket and snap them on, Poppy’s voice wobbles. “What’s going on?”
But as I stride toward the parcel, she lets out a whimper, pulls a whining Gus closer to her chest, and click-clacks down the hall. I pluck the pocketknife I confiscated from Romy out of my pocket and drag the blade across the tape holding the seam together.
I’d recognize the smell blindfolded. It’s one that when you smell it for the first time, you never forget it. I slide the flat side of the knife under the seam and rip it up, and a tuft of brown hair bursts through the cracks.
Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I wipe down the knife on the back of my glove and take a step back.
I don’t need to look to know whose head is in that box.
Because I’d bet my ball sack that it’s Paul Polansky’s.
