Page 21 of Conflicted Lies

That’s the fucking truth. We don’t know who to trust, and there are always things that slide under the radar or go missing. Once, Lucas and I went directly to the chief about the Monti family, and suddenly, the evidence wentpoof!Instead of pursuing it, we read the message loud and clear.

“I have two friends. They’re ex-military. I trust them,” he says.

If I weren’t already known by the Monti’s, Taylor’s, and Ivanov’s, I’d go undercover myself. But it’s risky.

“Why now?” I ask. “There’s so many hoops we have to jump through to do this above board.”

“We don’t tell the chief.” He says, and this shocks me and I can’t help but smile.

“Lucas I dare say I’ve rubbed off on you for the better.”

“Shut the fuck up. This is going too far. I can’t figure it out, and I’m sick of losing sleep over this case. I need my life back, and this killer needs to be behind bars.”

I can hear how tired he is and understand how frustrating it is not to figure it out. He’s getting desperate, which sometimes can become messy.

“And who’s paying them for this?” I question.

Lucas goes quiet. “I don’t know yet. I have a little bit of savings…”

I laugh. “Lucas, we’re detectives. We don’t earn even close to enough to buy their loyalty when the families can buy them out so easily.”

“I-I trust them,” he splutters. This is bold for Lucas, showing he’s at his wits’ end. I don’t exactly think it will work, but we’ve been going in circles.

“Fine. But I can’t offer much money. It’s risky, so I hope your men are as competent as you think because they might end up in a body bag.”

“They know the risks. And they both owe me a favor.”

“Who are you targeting first?” I ask.

“The Taylor’s mostly focus on the sex industry, so I figured I might as well begin with the bloodthirsty ones: the Monti’s and Ivanov’s.”

I shake my head because I’m certain his men are going to end up dead in a matter of days. He can’t send in two men to try and cut off the head of the snake that owns an entire den of vipers.But I have to trust in my partner,I remind myself.

I don’t like the idea of them snooping around Hope when I’ve already decided she’s my case, but they have no reason to target her when they’ll go for the bigger fish instead. Either Alek or Anya.

“Good luck to them is all I’m going to say.”

I hang up the phone. I’m after a serial killer, not a mysterious artist. Yet, I can’t curb my curiosity about Hope Ivanov.

I laugh, remembering her shitty shots with the gun. Am I turning into a crazy man ensnared by a little she-devil?

One thing’s for certain—she really does suck with a gun.

CHAPTER12

Hope

I’ve flown out for a show in Paris, but not before I scheduled an elegant black box to be delivered to Braxton’s address and left at his door. My stomach flutters, just imagining his reaction. Will he be mortified at the drowned man I took inspiration from? Can he appreciate the work that went into the piece? I know it’s risky sending them to him, but I’ve never felt more alive, finally being able to show someone my secret art.

It doesn’t make sense to me, but maybe I decided to take the risk because if anyone might appreciate a dead body in the same light I do, it’s surely a homicide detective. It’s a thrill to fuck with him in retaliation for him constantly popping up uninvited in my everyday life. We might move our pieces on the board differently, but we’re both here to play a game, and I’m curious about the outcome.

Me killing him is the ultimate goal, but it excites me to think he might be the first person ever to corner me. Ford and I often play chess, but I’m understanding there’s a very different thrill when playing with your life and reputation on the line.

“Angle yourself like this,” the photographer instructs, and I’m brought back to my reality at the art exhibition. I’ve donated two pieces for charity, and although I specifically told my agent I didn’t want to attend the event, I was told, as always, that it’s a must if I want to keep my name out there and continue building my career. I wonder when enough is enough. When are people satisfied by their level of fame? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be in the spotlight at all. It’s the shadows I prefer.

But I mimic her movement, running my hands down the very expensive gown I’m wearing. “Perfect. Now, lightly brush your fingers against the pearls on your neck. Oh, and let’s remove the glasses. Do you mind? You have such beautiful blue eyes.”

“It’s a rarity to have red hair and blue eyes,” my agent, Candice, interjects, peering over the photographer’s shoulder at the photos that have already been taken. The photographer’s assistant holds out her hand, and I hesitantly take off my glasses and pass them to her. Candice has suggested for years now I switch to contact lenses, but the glasses are like a security blanket for me. Another layer I can hide behind.

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