Page 85 of Steal My Heart
“It appears so.” I holster my gun. “We all run in the same social circles, but I didn’t realize the two of them were that close. And why would Mr. Bennett want the mayor’s phone so badly that he’d risk murder?” I knew my lawyer was dirty, but I assumed it was more of the white collar variety.
What I get for fucking assuming.
“I don’t know,” Maks says.
“Only one way to find out. I’ll deal with Bennett first. Have him ready for me on the boat after the dock’s cleaned up. Bag Bennett’s phone; I don’t want the last ping coming from my house.”
“You got it, boss. And Laurie?”
“I don’t know if Laurie is complicit, or if she was Bennett’s useful idiot. For now, put a tail on her.” It’s not that I have a problem killing the woman, but because so much heat is coming down on me right now, I have to play this smart. A sleazy lawyer I can make disappear a hell of a lot easier than a cancer doctor.
“On it. How’s Remi doing?”
“She’ll be fine.” While I hated leaving her, what I hate more is allowing Mr. Bennett to continue breathing. “And from here on out, Remi’s safety is my top priority.”
He looks like he’s choking on his words.
“Out with it.”
“This woman has brought nothing but chaos into your life.”
“Maybe I need a little chaos in my life. And before you ask who I am, it’s someone who’s already in a bad fucking mood,” I warn.
Remi
“Are we supposed to pretend we didn’t hear gunshots?” I ask Alessandra with a raised brow.
“Yes,” she says in all seriousness, hitting play on her documentary.
There are an estimated 3,569 serial killers in the United States, a narrator says ominously.
“That’s disturbing. Do any of them live under this roof, by chance?” I joke, nursing a mug of hot chocolate.
Alessandra pauses the documentary. “Shhh. You’ve got to watch the intro.”
“I’m watching,” I argue, and she presses play.
They could be anyone. Your neighbor. Your minister. Your child’s teacher. Or even your husband.
“Everyone’s a suspect. Got it.” Having showered and eaten, those two activities have taken what little energy I have left. Placing my hot chocolate on the nightstand—there’s no coaster because no way in hell Angelo Calvani eats or drinks in this room—my eyes flutter closed.
“Not necessarily.” She pauses the show. “Although statistically speaking, a man is more likely to be a serial killer. Now, why are men more likely? That’s open for debate. Is it testosterone? Cultural norms of men bottling their feelings? Adverse childhood events? Mental illness? These are unanswered questions.”
She presses play, and the documentary resumes with dramatic music.
“Ohh, right there! Those black, soulless eyes are a total giveaway that he’s a serial killer.”
Not opening mine, I point out, “Doesn’t Maks have pretty dark eyes?”
“Yeah, but he has more psychopathic tendencies. Those are different diagnoses,” she says matter-of-factly.
“And Angelo?” As weird as it is, I’ve never really been afraid of the man. Well, other than our first boating outing, but since I’ve sworn off all bodies of water, that will never be a problem again.
“He doesn’t kill for sport. At least, I don’t think he does.” She pauses, considering. “That would be pretty fascinating if he did.”
I open one eye. “That’s…morbid.”
“I know, right?”
