Page 112 of Beautiful Liar

My mind churns relentlessly until it propels me out of the bath. I dry myself and throw on the first thing that comes to hand—a cream, butter soft pantsuit that feels heavenly against my still sensitive skin.

I leave my suite and as I walk down the hallway, my gaze locks on the cameras above my head. No blinking red lights.

Downstairs, I pace restlessly through the living room, kitchen, out to the terrace and back again. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t used my phone since I got here. Haven’t needed to. I press the home button. Nothing happens. I race back upstairs and plug it onto the charger.

Excruciating minutes pass before the wheels stops spinning and it powers on. I startle as three pings announce emails.

My finger trembles as I slide it across the screen.

I haven’t missed a call from Fionnella.

But I’ve missed three calls from Quinn Blackwood.

Each one sent at some point in the middle of every night since last Friday.

Each call is followed by a text one minute later.

Each text bears the same message.

You’re in my head.

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