Page 34 of Only the Devil
I curl my index finger, telling her to take a couple of steps back. She and I need to be on the same page.
“Anything’s up, you call and text. Got it?”
Her right foot hits the ground in a stomp.
“It’s the quiet ones you gotta look out for, you hear me?” That’s me, trying to lighten the situation with one of my favorite quotes, but as I say it, I realize she’s gotta look out for them all.
Her palm flattens against my chest, and the simple touch sends heat straight through my shirt. She steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body and rises on her toes to speak in my ear. Her breath whispers against my skin as she says, “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
I’m about to ask for what when she pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her hand still pressed against my chest where my heart is hammering like I’ve been running sprints.
“For this…for staying,” she says, and the words are barely above a whisper. “It’s a mess, I know, and I haven’t been great company, but thank you.”
The morning bustle around us fades to background noise. All I can focus on is the way she’s looking at me—like I’m someone to be grateful for instead of someone that’s going to disappoint or disappear.
My hand rises along her back, feeling the soft cotton of her dress warmed by her skin beneath, until my fingers thread through her damp hair. The strands are silk between my fingers as I tilt her head back.
For a heartbeat, we’re frozen like that—her dark eyes wide, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Then she breathes my name, so soft I almost miss it, and I’m done aiming for professional.
Her lips are softer than I imagined. The kiss starts tentative—then she slips her tongue against mine, and it spirals straight into reckless. Her fist clenches my shirt, and she releases the softest sigh.
The city noise fades to a distant hum, but I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid and strong, matching the rhythm of my own.
Her kiss is everything I thought it would be, and nothing like I expected. She tastes like coffee and something uniquely her, something that might just be addictive. Every logical thought disappears.
I take stock of her wet, swollen lips, and frazzled gaze, her mouth slightly open, like she too is struggling for breath.
The tips of her fingers brush her bottom lip, like she too can’t believe what we just did.
With a soft, “See you later,” she steps inside, and I scan the lobby from outside the building, making eye contact with a man in a suit. My gut clenches. Not just any man—Phillip Sterling.
Chapter 13
Daisy
Phillip Sterling stands inside the lobby like a modern-day overlord; his bespoke pinstripe suit and silver tie a symbol of his superiority over the minions scurrying past to clock in for the day.
The marble floors amplify every footstep, creating an echo chamber of corporate ambition. The morning rush streams around him—badge swipes chirping, elevator chimes dinging in rapid succession. He doesn’t move, doesn’t check his phone, just watches as if he’s running facial recognition software on every person who enters his domain.
Jake’s spidey sense must have detected his presence. That’s why he kissed me. He’s concerned about this place, just like Rhodes, so he’s digging into his protector role. And meanwhile, for a split second there, I thought it was real. And maybe it was, I mean, minutes passed—right?
I offer a polite nod in Sterling’s direction, catching Ms. Weaver’s eye as I do. She’s in the middle of a conversation with the person at the front desk. I aimed to get here early, but apparently I’m not the only one arriving well before the official nine a.m. start time.
Ms. Weaver barely acknowledges me, as I’m just one of the peons in her midst. Of course that resentful attitude is probably the reason I fly through jobs as quickly as sand absorbs water. If I hadn’t come across Rhodes, who gives me ample leeway, I’d be following in my mother’s footsteps. That thought has me rubbing an uncomfortable spot on my sternum before stepping into the elevator with two suited colleagues.
The elevator cabin smells like coffee and nervous sweat, that peculiar scent of Monday morning anxiety. The brushed steel walls reflect distorted versions of the three of us—me, in my black dress, looking like a glitch in their beige-and-navy corporate matrix. One of my companions drums manicured nails against a leather portfolio; the other stares at the floor numbers with laser focus, as if willing the elevator to move faster through sheer concentration.
The inclination to hit the fourth-floor button threatens to override caution, but I have no reason to go to the fourth floor, and besides, I already know Jocelyn isn’t there. The question I have is how quickly will word spread that she’s dead? And how will people react? What will they say?
As I flick on the overhead light to my office, I hear a cubicle dweller say, “I heard it was suicide.”
So, not long at all.
I still, just inside the door frame to my office, straining to hear. I recognize the voice. It’s Ned. I met him briefly last week. He’s a marketing assistant, and I’d guess he’s in his mid-twenties.
“Please. Suicide doesn’t add up,” a woman’s voice responds. “Jillian said that she received a voicemail from her on Friday asking her to reschedule her one-on-one meeting on Monday. Why bother changing the time of a Monday meeting if you’re planning on killing yourself? She also worked late on Friday. On a summer Friday. I mean, why? If you’re that depressed, why would you care about adjustments to the second-quarter report? Why come into work at all? It had to have been some freak accident.”
“She was always a little odd, don’t you think?” Ned asks. “I mean, did you see the photos of the costumes she put her cat in?”
