Page 28 of Painted Scars
Me:Anything else to report?
“Nope,” Grayson shuts his laptop. “But I’ll keep on it.”
“I’ll put this guy on acid and get back to Murder Spice,” Katar informs me.
That’s a lead we urgently need answers on. I want to know who she is and how she’s so well-equipped with spyware.
I sign off and leave the chat.
Reading Kate’s extensive articles keeps me busy for a few hours. Evidence, timelines, and witness statements paint a credible picture to nail these Roman bastards in their coffins. Or nail one in her own. I wonder if she knows she may be on their radar. If she thinks I’m one of them sent to subdue her.
In between, I take breaks and watch her. She hums as her lampshade takes shape. No fear or sense of danger, just a smile while she works. Biting her lip at some twisted verse about carving devotion into skin. Warmth and weirdness in a bubble she thinks is safe.
By the time the clock hits 3AM, I’m fading and need to get rest.
The audio has long gone silent, and she’s completed about four panels of her lamp. Tired, she wipes her eyes, sets aside her creation, and pads to her bed, sinking under the covers, minus PJ3.
I want to climb through her window, brush her forehead, and whisper that it’s okay. Instead, I climb down the tree, return to my bike and ride home.
Falling onto my mattress, I can’t help but worry that I’m wading into dangerous territory with this woman.
CHAPTER 9 - KATE
I’m deep into my new piece about a spate of underwear thefts from clotheslines that has Shadow Lake in a spin, when I feel it—the slimy awareness creeping down my spine. I’m being watched… again. And not by the dark, mysterious biker kind of bad.
Burt lingers.
I don’t look up. Tell my body not to lock. Don’t give him a sign I’m nervous. He’s a hyena that pounces on that. I shovel a Malteser in my mouth to build a candy wall against him.
Brut aftershave and the stale scent of coffee slap me across the face as my boss parks his ass on the edge of my desk. Creepshow leans into my cubicle, crooked tie, cracked lips, and eyes that never blink.
I spin in my chair. “Can I help you, Burt?” I dampen the bitch in my tone. He’s my boss and controls my paycheck… for now.
“Heading out.” His oil-slick tone is heavy with suggestion, and oozes down my skin.
“Enjoy.” I turn back to my screen. “I’ll lock up.”
The trick is never to give him too much leeway.
“What are you working on?” The man lacks a degree in social etiquette to determine when to fuck off.
“You know. Editor-in-chief, remember?” This is a power play. He wants me to mention the underwear so he can comment on mine.
He leans in to examine my open tabs. Shit. I forgot to close the one open on the Morrone family’s nightclub downtown.
“Morrone family, huh? They drink at the Gypsy. Want me to introduce you?” He pretends he knows them when they’d eat him alive.
“Give him my card.” I grab one from my desk holder and slap it down for him.
Burt doesn’t touch the card. His finger trails over my shoulder, and I lock up. “A pretty thing like you wouldn’t have a problem talking to him.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t scream, even though my survival instincts want to.
No one’s left in the office, and that’s how this works now. No witnesses to back me up. Why will they when he’s rewarded for bad behavior and they’re relegated to reporting for the back pages?
“Undo a few buttons, smile, and buy him a drink.” Is he still talking about Antonio Morrone, the head of the family?
I slap Burt’s hand away from my arm. “Didn’t you sign an agreement not to touch me?”
