Page 45 of A Touch of Dark
“And here I was, assuming that you had such a wonderful day.” He cocks his head with devastating candor, his voice ice cold. So much for playing contrite. “Whatever happened to your smile?”
Bastard. Finding his little toy was one thing. Hearing him parrot such casual banter from my daily life is another entirely. I’m shaking, and this time, I have no trouble stepping into the hall.
“Goodnight, Mr. Villa,” I spit out without looking back. “Enjoy the view. And from now on, you can take your so-called apology and shove it up your ass.”
Such a callous statement would demand a slow, collected walk to go with it. Any other night I’d try, but I can’t reach the elevator fast enough. Once outside, I chase down a cab—but rather than the Lariat, I have the driver take me to the one place I instinctively know Damien won’t dare venture.
I go home to Heyworth Thorne.
And I intend to tell him everything.
Iopen my eyes to a perfect bedroom ripped from the pages of a home and garden magazine. One of those glossy editions featuring rooms resembling a dollhouse setup more than anything people actually live in. This dollhouse family loves their pastels: lemon-yellow walls reflect the bright sunlight streaming in through a bay window.
Tucked beneath a matching duvet, I barely slept. Though not for lack of trying.
My cage was carefully prepared in advance, courtesy of Diane, Daddy’s second wife. I recognize her handiwork; she must have come into the room last night, fished an ornate box from the antique wardrobe in the corner and withdrew enough nightlights to fill every single outlet. Then she switched on the white noise machine hidden behind a potted fern to block out any hint of an approaching thunderstorm.
She even left clothing out for me: jeans and a simple blouse—both black and unassuming. After getting dressed, I make a show of yawning as I descend the steps to an audience of one.
“It’s not like you to pop in so late, sweet pea.”
Daddy stands in the doorway of the kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug while wearing his trademark grin. Ours mirror each other, in fact: pearly white and perfectly straight. But he strays from the script; his eyes narrow and give me an anxious sweep.
“Is everything all right?” He doesn’t require a drug to see through my defenses.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie, straight-faced. “It’s just… I wanted to check up on you.”
“Oh, really?” He sighs. “I may be getting on in years, darling, but I’m not oblivious. Now, don’t lie to me. You saw the news last night, didn’t you?”
I say nothing as my heart hammers away in my chest.
“I don’t want you to worry,” he continues. “The police will find out who is behind these horrendous crimes. The perpetrator won’t get away.”
The sarcasm in his tone makes me suspect that he has an idea of who that perpetrator might be. “You think Damien Villa is behind this?”
“Not him directly,” he admits without an ounce of hesitation. “His family perhaps. His brother. They’re dangerous, Juliana. But I don’t want to discuss this now. Come, I bet you’re starving.”
He inclines his head for me to follow him into the kitchen, where a steaming plate of breakfast is already waiting for me, courtesy of his chef, Craig. Daddy takes the seat beside me and fishes a cigar from his pocket.
I glance at the clock. “Isn’t it a little too early for that?”
Rather than answer me, he takes a puff of the cigar and inhales the smoke so deeply that he coughs.
I make a show of fussing over him, patting his back. “Daddy, you know this isn’t good for you—”
“I increased the guard duty I have on you, at least until the conference,” he admits, in between two more puffs. “I told them to give you your space, but they’re alert. Have you noticed a difference at all?”
Difference? Yes, I have. Primarily, a deranged lunatic strolling into my home like he owns it.
“Y-yes.” By some miracle, I keep my flawless smile intact. “I’ve felt safer.”
“Good. Good.” Daddy sighs. Apparently, I’m not the only one exhausted by these past few days.
“What’s wrong?”
When I shift closer to him, he slaps his hand over the newspaper lying nearby. I only catch a glimpse of the headline before he rolls it up and tosses it aside:Borgetta Prosecutor Found Dead of Suspected Suicide.
I reach for my untouched mug of coffee and gulp a mouthful of liquid to disguise the shudder ripping through me. Another murder. Could Damien or his family truly be behind it?
