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It’s…
… something I can’t afford to acknowledge.
Because regardless of whatever comes to light, Clara Everett is still the reason why my desk is covered in police files and investigation notes.
I stare at the time logs of Michael Little’s last day alive. Just as Clara pointed out, it shows he left the precinct early that afternoon, but there’s no notes as to why or where he went. For all we know, he left to get a fucking haircut.
The irony is, that could be exactly why he left. Something so simple, so mundane.
The idea doesn’t feel so farfetched, so I make a note to have Pavel run intel on local businesses near the precinct as well as around Little’s old house. If we’re able to pull purchase records, receipts, anything…
I sigh. Once again, it feels like I’m not just trying to find a needle in a haystack—I’m trying to find the world’s smallest needle in a field full of haystacks.
The easiest solution would be to just burn it all to the ground and pick up what’s left. Theoretically, of course. In reality, the duality of my worlds provides mutual safety nets. Should I lose the Bratva for whatever godforsaken reason, I need my legal front to catch me. And if the casino suddenly detonates tomorrow, the Bratva is here to rebuild.
I can’t risk losing my mind and burning it all down just to figure out what the hell Michael Little was doing at 3 P.M. on a Tuesday thirteen years ago.
Overtime? No family—lived alone. No kids. Ex-wife moved to Reno.
Clara’s scribbled handwriting catches my eye. It seems she wants to know, too.
Who called him?
That’s the Big Question. Who called Michael Little to bring him to the warehouse? The whole scenario was undoubtedly orchestrated. Things happened a little too perfectly in the killer’s favor for it all to be sheer coincidence. The fact that we’re nowhere near close to finding out who pulled the trigger is proof enough of that.
I don’t like admitting when I’ve made mistakes because, again, I can’t afford to make them.
But as I study Clara’s notes in the margins, her doodled arrows and subconsciously-drawn flowers, I’m realizing I’ve been putting blame on her as ifshewas the murderer.
She was just a scared kid traumatized out of her mind.
Now, she’s a grown woman with even more trauma seared into her brain—yours truly included—and yet she’s still trying to help me. She’s forcing herself through memory loss and terror just to make things right for Tolya, who made it clear during our visit that he’s not going to be forgiving her anytime soon.
And she still pushes forward anyway.
She’s still determined to figure this out.
Pairing this with the memory of last night and all the sights and sounds of Clara coming on my cock, her exhales heating that laundry room until they coalesced as sweat on our skin…
Fuck, I need more coffee. Preferably along with something alcoholic to make the rest of the day bearable. Whatever will help me ignore the feeling in my chest I don’t want growing there.
59
DEMYEN
If I thought I was going to get any reprieve from Clara haunting my every waking moment, I was sorely mistaken.
She’s scrubbing one of the ovens in the kitchen, on her hands and knees with that perfectly juicy ass rocking back and forth. It doesn’t help at all that her uniform happens to be a fairly short gray dress just barely covering where her thighs meet her ass.
Those thighs, wrapped around my head…
I only clear my throat because my mouth is suddenly dry as hell. Clara startles and glances over her shoulder, sees me, then returns to scrubbing the oven.
“Good morning,” I mutter, heading to the coffee bar to make a fresh pot of cold brew.
“Morning.” Her head is still ducked inside the oven. She only pulls out to rinse her sponge. Still, she doesn’t look up at me.
I focus on filling a thermos with ice to give myself something to do. She’s cleaning, doing the job I hired her to do; I can’t standaround being butthurt that she’s not gazing at me with those long, dark lashes fluttering in my face.
