Page 122 of Beautiful Liar

“Does this have anything to do with Lucky?”

“Will it matter?”

“Not to me. But will you let it matter to you? Or is that question already redundant?”

“You see too much.”

“Isn’t that why we’re in this thing together? We saw too much, felt too much. And we paid the price. Is that what’s happening with Lucky? Is she—?”

“About the apartment—”

“No. Morning is morning. I’m going back to bed. And Quinn.”

I remain silent.

“You better not do anything stupid.”

I hang up and stand. I root around for my car keys and wallet, then shove the discarded clothes in the trash.

The Mustang isn’t as fast as my DB9, but it still gets me back to my apartment in under half an hour. I go to the second bedroom reserved for Q and pick up the things I need.

The DB9 has me outside the Hell’s Kitchen loft in record time.

I key in the code, disable the alarm and let myself in. A single lamp softly illuminates the living and kitchen area, but upstairs is shrouded in darkness. I adjust the mask, make sure the needle thin wire of the voice distorter is tucked inside my cheek.

On silent feet, I walk up the stairs.

Tomorrow, I’ll have Elly. Tonight, I need Lucky.

***

Lucky

I’m dreaming that stupid dream again. The one where happiness mocks me with its sheer fucking brilliance. I want to shove it out of the way, skip to the terrifying bits and just be done with it. But no, the death by happiness continues its fucked up play-by-play.

Quinn’s smile.

His voice.

His laughter.

I want you, Elly.

You see me, don’t you?

I begin to reach out. And my wish is granted. His face catches fire. Begins to turn to ash right before my very eyes. I want to recoil, but that means letting him go. I don’t want to let go. I try to cling, but my hand comes away with the blackest soot.

Soot. Everywhere. Climbing up my body, invading my mouth, my ears. My nostrils. I can’t breathe.

I jerk awake with a silent scream.

Then realize the dream isn’t over.

He’s found me. He’s in the room with me.

A louder scream as I launch out of bed. My shin smacks painfully into the bedside table as I scramble backward.

“Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me, Clay. We…let’s work something out.”

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