Page 7 of Conflicted Lies

My father heads toward their bedroom, most likely going to prepare for sleep or a business meeting. Three in the morning seems like prime time for criminals to get on calls.

“Ivy’s not in the country, and Billie said she was busy this weekend, but I’ll meet with them soon.” Ivy Walker and Billie Taylor are my two closest friends. Much like me, they were raised with fathers who were on the shadier side of business. Ironically, our fathers, who all have lethal reputations, raised us like little princesses.

“Were there any boys?” she asks.

“Mo-om,” I groan. “I am not having this discussion with you. I need to sleep.”

She presses a kiss to my forehead. “Fine, but we’re going to have a serious discussion about this tomorrow.”

I roll my eyes because that isn’t going to happen. I’ve never been the bad girl type. I keep to myself and was a good student. This is the most mischief I’ve gotten up to, and it’s almost as if they’re relieved I’m living a “semi-normal” life.

I head to my room, which hasn’t changed much since I was a teenager, and fall onto my bed.

I’ve considered getting my own place, but I travel so much that I’m rarely in one place for any length of time.

“I knew I left this here,” I say to myself as I reach for my phone on my bedside table.

After having a shower and getting into bed, I check my Instagram page. It’s become a habit. I have over one million followers, and I’m always curious as to what they’re saying about my new collections. Not that I care so much what they think, but I’m always intrigued as to how many people truly understand the message I’m trying to send through my sculptures.

I have a new message, which isn’t uncommon. Most of the time, I ignore them. But the name of the account is what has me opening it.

Hello, Shortcake…

I stare at it, thinking this night couldn’t have gone any more astray. Why the fuck is Braxton Hero messaging me? Is he seriously trying to get himself killed?

I don’t reply. Instead, curiosity gets the better of me, and I stalk his profile.

“Boring,” I say on a yawn. He barely has any photos, and those he does have are of him and his workmates when he’s receiving awards. A real A+ plus type of guy—the furthest thing from the man I met four years ago, who strangled me in pleasure.

Closing the app, I fall asleep almost immediately.

And dream of him.

CHAPTER4

Braxton

Istand over a body, admiring the killer’s handiwork. This is the sixth body in just as many months. Don’t get me wrong, in Manhattan, there are always murders, but we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. One who doesn’t seem to have a method of killing. It makes them dangerous because it seems like they’re experimenting. The only indication we have that all six murders were committed by the same person is the type of target, all being male, and the openness the body was left to be found. The killer wants to be noticed.

“Any cameras around here?” I ask the bouncer who found the body in the club’s alley and called it in two hours ago. It was right after Hope Ivanov was escorted out of the station by the famed Aleksandr Ivanov and Rya Monti. I knew there were deep ties running through the families, but that is a combination of disaster for any law enforcement to try and come down on, which is exactly why they haven’t.

“No cameras,” he says.

I sigh. How the fuck does this person evade cameras every time?

Photos are being taken of the crime scene, and I stare at the man’s bleeding eyes. Fucking hell. I’m guessing poison, maybe?

“Have we confirmed if he was in the club?”

The bouncer nods. “I had my boss look over the security footage, and he was one of the people registered for the night.”

“I want to see that list. And have the videos sent to the station,” I tell him. He nods again, swallowing as he stares down at the body. I imagine he doesn’t often see dead people firsthand.

Lucas walks over, dark circles under his eyes. We don’t usually work such long hours, but we’re doing overtime this evening, trying to figure out if this murder is linked to the one from the same night. Two people in three nights. The other victim had their throat slit, however.

It makes it trickier to track a killer when the methods aren’t consistent. Or it means we have more than one killer on the loose. Anything is fucking possible in this city.

“He’s been dead for about twelve hours. Until we get an autopsy, we can’t confirm how long before he died that he consumed the poison. Assuming that’s what this is,” Lucas says.

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