Page 15 of Conflicted Lies

My gut tells me yes.

Always yes to protect myself and family.

But maybe I’m in over my head on this one.

CHAPTER8

Braxton

I’m exhausted. The cases keep piling up with this serial killer. Two nights ago it was a man on the outskirts of town: no cameras or witnesses. The guy’s phone and wallet were missing, and even when we tracked his digital prints, there was no indication as to who he might have been meeting out near the bridge where he was drowned or why.

Had the killer left his body in the river, it would have floated downstream and not been found for days, if at all. But they’d had the balls to pull him back out and leave him on the riverbank.

It doesn’t make sense. Whoever this person is, it’s like they’re almost screaming to be caught. Or they’ve become so arrogant that they don’t even care about gloating to the police. Worse, it’s creating too much paperwork.

The only reason we assume it’s the same killer is because of the victim. He was reported two days ago to authorities for harassing a woman in her mid-twenties. The man got off on the charges with the right lawyers involved.

Someone certainly thinks of themselves as a hero, which makes them the deadliest kind of vigilante.

I look down at my phone, at the photos taken from today by the man I hired to trail Hope Ivanov. I haven’t had a chance to see her all day, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been tracking her every move. Photos come through of her at the airport, coming off her family’s private plane. She was in Rome for less than forty-eight hours, and now she’s back in town. Keeping tabs on how often she’s here is the tricky part. I’ve downloaded her schedule of international shows, but it’s not a bulletproof schedule to track.

I haven’t yet expressed to my partner, Lucas, my interest in the Ivanov daughter until I know what I want to do with her. For now all I can do is watch.

Walking into my studio apartment, I throw my car keys on the counter and then remove my gun and store it safely. I start to undress, pulling my shirt over my head first. Then, I pause in the middle of the room.

Something feels off. And it’s glaringly obvious. A black box sits at the end of my bed. I silently search the apartment. Intuitively, I know no one else is in my home, but I have a top-of-the-line security system, so how the fuck did someone break in without setting off the alarms?

I pull out my phone and bring up the security cameras to find they were all down for precisely twenty-four minutes. Who the fuck was in my apartment, and how did they know how to disable my security cameras?

I eye the box. I know I should call it in. It could be a bomb, for fuck’s sake, yet unfortunately, curiosity has always been a weakness of mine.

I lift the lid to reveal something reflective. Glass? I pull out the sculpture, appreciating its exquisite detail.What the fuck?It’s a replica of a crime scene image from the club where the man was poisoned weeks ago. The detail is uncanny. There’s no message or further tidbit in the box.

My jaw clenches as a set of innocent blue eyes come to mind. Is it hyper fixation, or is my gut telling me something? I know Hope does sculptures in clay and not glass, but for some reason, I just feel like this is somehow connected with her. Everything keeps coming back to her, but I’m certain it’s more to do with personal intrigue than anything. Her family is woven through the underworld, and I’m hellbent on making her confess her sins. Catching someone like Hope Ivanov is like drawing out the rest of the hornets’ nest. This goes beyond simply a serial killer, and that’s my lead in.

What makes this matter worse is this sculpture is identical to a photo taken by our forensic team, which means our data has been compromised. Who the fuck is hacking our system for morbid inspiration? And why leave this inmyapartment?

This is personal. The killer knows I’m on their tail. But what’s the meaning behind the sculpture?

Deep down in my gut, I fucking know this has something to do with Hope. She may appear innocent, but I know she has something darker lurking beneath those pretty blue eyes. And I really want to find out what it is.

You’re letting your fixation with her impair your judgment, a more logical part of me says, but I push it away because receiving a glass sculpture as a gift is new. And the only thing I’ve changed in my routine over the last few weeks is following Hope Ivanov.

CHAPTER9

Hope

He’s back again. It’s been almost two weeks since our last run-in, and I honestly thought he’d gained some common sense about snooping around a killer’s daughter. Alas, here we are. Braxton takes the exact same seat he took the last time he invited himself to join me at the café.

This time, I have an entire pancake left over, and he immediately picks up the fork and starts eating it. I don’t bother telling him to stop because I don’t think he’d listen. I simply purse my lips and stick to the tactic I’ve been using since he re-entered my life—I try my best to ignore him. Even though he’s quiet while scarfing back the last of my breakfast, his presence is loud, screaming at me for attention. I fucking refuse to engage with him.

I scan over to the next page. “Hey!” I yell as he snatches my book from my hands. I’m too slow as he angles himself across from me and begins to read. One of his eyebrows raises curiously, and he glances up at me.

“Thought it would be about glass sculptures,” he says as he lowers the book.

“What?” I quickly snatch it from his grasp.

“Are we playing dumb?” He tsks at me. “Didn’t take you for a dumb person.”

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