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“What is it?”
“I went to Calvin’s house—”
“Ivy …” he interrupts, slapping a hand over his eyes. “You can’t go snooping around like that. Someone might see you.”
“Um. Someone did.”
He jerks upright again, staring down at me.
“One of Calvin’s friends. A guy he plays cards with. I told him I was there to pick up my things. That we broke up.”
Head slamming back into the pillow, Damon’s displeasured groan only makes me feel worse.
“It was stupid of me to go back there, but he had the file from the hospital. If anyone came across that? They’d trace it right to my department. Right to me.”
He sighs, tucking his arm under his head. “You were able to retrieve the file?”
“Yes. And his computer.”
For the second time, his attention snaps to me. “Computer?”
“He had nudes of me. Again, not interested in anyone finding that shit. Could be motive. Don’t you watch crime TV?”
“I lived crime TV for most of my life. While I understand and appreciate your efforts to eliminate traces of evidence, the bottom line is, what you did was dangerous. Do you even know this guy? What he does? Because I’m guessing a friend of Calvin’s is most likely a business transaction.”
“I don’t even know his name.”
“Did he say, or do anything, threatening?”
“Only that he wanted to take me to the back of his car to help me forget about Calvin.”
His face morphs from concern to murder, and if I happened to be the reason for it, I’d be considering last rites right about now.
“I’m only telling you this because I think he might’ve bought my story. I declined, not exactly politely, but still, he let me go.”
Silence hangs between us for what seems like a whole minute.
“He let me go, Damon. And I promise you, I won’t go back there again.”
“Good. Because this guy who let you go? He’s damn sure he’s going to cross paths with you again.”
“What makes you so sure of that? According to Calvin, the guy fucks supermodels, or girls that look like one, anyway. He’s not going to waste his time on me.”
“He will if he thinks you know what happened to Calvin. And if Calvin is someone important to him, he isn’t going to wait for you to come to him.”
24
Damon
It’s three in the morning, when I wake up from only two hours of sleep. After Ivy dozed off, I spent the next few hours thinking, contemplating my life.
Dryness in my throat begs for some water, so I push up from the bed, my attention catching on something at the window across the room. Rubbing my eyes, I squint against sleepiness.
The window is wide open. An object dangles from the cord of the shades.
Sliding from the bed, I tip my head, padding quietly across the floor to keep from waking Ivy, and the object sharpens into view.
Philippe hangs by his neck, not moving, his vacant, glassy stare telling me he’s gone.
