Page 61 of Painted Scars
“What are you doing with the body?” I ask.
Katar beams like I’ve handed him another victim. “Staging a drug-fueled double homicide. Dealer shoots druggie in a botched deal. They both die.” He casually scribbles the debt owed onto the corpse’s cheek with his blood.
I part Kate’s curtain with two fingers and scan the street, eyes sweeping over every parked car, memorizing their plates. If anyone’s watching her, they won’t get a second chance.
I let the screen fall closed. “And when Blackthorn’s goons want a status report or the rest of his debt?”
“Unless the narrative is suicide.” Katar crosses to Grayson’s desk and lifts Tom’s personal phone, and types bloody fingerprints with his thumbs, smudging the Spiderman case. “Dear Mom and Dad, I’ve been living a lie,” he reads his message aloud. “Tried drugs and got in deep. Did some messed-up things I’m not proud of. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Tom.”
I swear under my breath but can’t deny his sick little fiction might hold.
Katar then collects Tom’s black Android burner phone plugged into another port. “Sending a message to Blackthorn’s contact.Took care of the girl. She won’t squeak a word.”
We’ll be lucky if this works for a week, tops.
“Grayson, extract everything from both phones and wipe them clean,” I tell him. “Timeline, GPS, texts, call logs. Then gut the SIM, shred the shell, and get Katar to toss pieces in three separate rivers.”
My nerdy friend salutes with two fingers. Efficient, reliable, and my anchor in this sea of chaos.
Katar lovingly strokes Tom’s hair like he’s a dying pet.
My mind pivots to Kate and her research and her scent haunting my shirt. She’s not safe. Nowhere near it.
“I want a full lockdown on Unicorn’s digital profile. Blog, work drives, phone, home network. Anything Blackthorn can tap. Next time they won’t send a junkie, they’ll send someone like Katar.”
My enforcer winks. “Flattered.”
Not a compliment.
Grayson nods, already working on it, his fingers fluttering across his keyboard. “And the unicorn?”
Kate is a walking glitter bomb of provocation.
“I’ll tell her to lie low until the dark glitter settles,” I reply, and Grayson cracks a smile.
If it settles at all. Blackthorn doesn’t clear threats, he vaporizes them. This means I have to stay closer. Much closer. Even if it means getting scorched.
We end the call, and I return to my post.
PJ3 hasn’t left her side all night and is starting to wriggle like he’s been holding his bladder for a century.
“Come on. Bathroom break.” I carry the goblin downstairs, his legs bicycling in the air, scolding me that I’ve committed treason for leaving his owner behind without a guard.
The back door opens to a patio with deck furniture, space for a barbecue setup, a spacious yard with neatly trimmed grass, and a half-dead herb garden trying to survive her neglect.
I put the dog down, and he bolts for the far corner, circling and sniffing for a perfect spot. Leaning against the patio column, I bask in the cool night air, and it eases the tension in my gut.
PJ3 takes his sweet time, sniffing five spots, and my mind drifts away. I picture myself sweating over a barbecue, beer in hand, dropping cooled slices of steak to the pooch at my feet. A life men like me don’t get. I crush that dream before it expands into a romance novel, and bend down to greet the little demon trotting over to me, tail wagging.
I scratch behind his ears. “Yeah, I’m protecting Momma too.”
He gives me a little woof of approval, and I smile, taking him back upstairs to her, where he curls into her shoulder.
By 10AM she stirs, rolling onto her side, eyes peeling open and blinking. Rays of sunlight come through the window and illuminate half her face.
PJ3 loses his shit, tail swishing, licking her like a tornado of affection.
I slide my helmet back on after a long breather and get off the chair and clear my throat to let her know she’s not alone. “Morning, Glitter Bomb.”
