Page 93 of Chaotic Curse
I scan the counters, the shelves, the gleaming row of knives on the magnetic strip above the counter.One catches my eye—a Japanese chef’s knife with a carved wood handle, a sapphire set into its base.It’s beautiful, perfectly balanced.He only allowed me to use it once.It felt perfect in my grip, like it was made for me.
“That knife,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow.“Anything but that one.”
“But you said anything.”
He sighs.“I did.Take it, then.I won’t be quite so generous the next time.”
I don’t doubt his words.Next time I’ll probably have to fake gag.
I wrap my hand around the handle and let the weight of it settle into my palm.
And I can’t help myself.I actually say, “Thank you.”
* * *
Present Day…
I walk into my bedroom to my nightstand.The knife is wrapped in linen, tucked in the back of the bottom drawer.I pull it out.
It’s one of the few things I had time to grab before I fled Colombia with Vinnie and Serena.I’ve cooked plenty since I came to the States, but I’ve never used it.
Not because it’s too fine.
Because it belongs here, in my bedroom, where I can reach it in the dark.
If he comes for me here, in my home—the man behind the poisoned chocolates, the roses, the notes, the grenade—this knife sinking into his flesh will be the last thing he feels.
29
HAWK
The night airis heavy and warm the way it only is on a Texas night.My shirt clings between my shoulder blades, but I don’t break stride.I keep to the shadows along the edge of the street.
Reyes’s house stands at the end of the block.
The gated community was easy enough to get back into.Same trick as before—follow a resident in, look like I belong.I parked two streets over, tucked under a tree where the streetlight’s dead.
From here, it’s all muscle memory.
I skirt the back fence, sticking to the narrow strip where the neighbor’s hedges run high enough to hide me.The pool’s edge gleams faintly.I hear the faint hum of the filter, smell the chlorine.
The stairwell is exactly where Zillow said it would be—set into the concrete deck, the kind of thing a homeowner thinks is hidden because they never look at their own house from a predator’s point of view.
The camera above it is a fake.I knew it before, but I check again anyway—plastic housing, no wiring visible, lens too small to actually do the job.
One deep breath, and then I slip down the steps.
No alarm system other than the cameras and dummies.What a fool Reyes is, though this isn’t his main residence.He just happens to be in town.Lucky for me.
I pick the lock easily.The cool air inside hits me.Total darkness.Perfect.
I begin with the movie room.Rows of leather recliners, the faint smell of buttered popcorn.I stay quiet as I walk to the opposite door.
The house is quiet—no TV hum, no voices, just the faintest shuffle from somewhere above me.
I hit the garage next, letting my cellphone flashlight lead the way.Three bays, only one car.A late-model Mercedes coupe, dark gray, polished to a mirror shine.The other two bays are empty.If Reyes has company, they didn’t drive.
