Page 118 of A Taste like Sin
Damien claimed he wasn’t behind the continued presents, but someone else—someone powerful
enough to hire skilled men every time to break into my apartment.
Men who scoured through my personal belongings and crept through my personal spaces. For years,
leaving behind the ominous stench of cologne that I’d always linked to Simon…
And all along, Damien had watched.
“Don’t get sidetracked,” I scold myself. Drawing my knees up to my chin, I huddle against the back of
the couch and continue to read, straining my eyes through the low light. The house is small, but I got
some sleep in a small bedroom upstairs. When I awoke, I discovered an oversized shirt and pair of
jeans Julio must have left for me, my makeshift detective uniform.
After tapping the pen on the paper, I start off with the easiest facts to comprehend: Chief Harrison
claimed my father had been poisoned with oleander.
But Harrison’s son is publicly claiming my father’s endorsement.
Harrison also had access to my apartment.
But Harrison was also an acquaintance of my father’s. I’m not sure if they were particularly close, but
close enough that the man was a vague, though regular fixture at my father’s events throughout the
years. Could… Could he have been the one all those years ago to scribble my name onto a piece of
paper that is now resting in Heyworth’s security deposit box?
My temples throb, protesting the conflicting bits of information.
Then there’s the matter of Lynn McKelvy. Her presents stopped when the real Simon died.
My tormentor didn’t choose to continue haunting her. But why?
I’m making myself dizzy, pouring over the possibilities until my eyes burn—but reading is the only
distraction I have from the low, rumbling noise gnawing at the edge of my awareness.
It’s darker now. A blueish glow taints the room despite it being early in the afternoon. As I look up, a
flash of white illuminates everything for a split second. And I freeze—the perfect victim for the
thunder barreling through the quiet a heartbeat later.
I jump up, slamming my hands over my ears. But it’s no use. I hear him anyway, no less real than he
was twenty years ago.
Come out, come out, Juliana.
I see him: a shadow, lunging from the corners of the room, chasing me. Hunting me. I scream and turn
to run. Escape. Clumsy limps hinder me. I’m not quick enough to avoid the edge of the end table. The
