Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I should have relieved him this morning, but I wanted to give Eddie time to re-think his options, and I needed to be seen in public should any police come asking questions when Eddie turns up floating in the Hudson.
“Afternoon, Eddie.” I walk over to where he’s hanging, his hands in chains wrapped around a meat hook, his toes barely scraping the concrete floor.
His body is shuddering, dried blood crusted around his lips, a dusting of sweat coating his skin. Hanging there like that will be agony, the stretched tendons in his arms almost tearing from the sockets, his skin on fire. The bruising has come out blackening his face.
“I took the liberty of removing his fingernails, but he’s still not talking,” the dentist informs me.
Piss and blood coat the concrete beneath his feet, the stench revolting.
Marcello steps announce him joining us, yawning and scrubbing his hand down his face. “Do you want me to break a few bones?” he grins.
A text pings on my phone.
Detective Morels.
Eddie’s alibi checks out.
Goddammit.
Irritation rolls through me, I wanted it to be him, for this to be over. Leaning down, I pull Marcello’s knife from the strap on his ankle, “A confession won’t be necessary now.” I growl, stalking Eddie. I plunge the steel blade into his chest.
“Or we could just do that,” Marcello pipes up. “What’s going on?”
“Eddie was clean. Get rid of him,” I order. Taking the blade to the sink, I clean it to remove my prints and hand it back to Marcello.
Fury roars in my chest. I thought this was going to be over, but now we’re back to square one.
When I arrive back at the house, Detective Morels is sitting in my driveway, his car idling.
Getting out of my car my shoes crunch across the gravel, the wind hinting of a storm brewing howling against the windows of the house.
Opening the passenger side door, I slip into his vehicle. It stinks of cigarette smoke and fast food.
“Did you get my text?” he queries.
My eyes flit down my body conscious that there may be some blood splatter there but I’m clean.
“How solid was his alibi?”
Exhaling a deep breath, he leans an elbow on the window ledge. “Rock solid. It couldn’t have been him.” He opens the glove box and pulls out an envelope. “There’s something else. I pulled the tapes from the surveillance cameras out of evidence.”
Opening the seal, I tip the photos out, looking them over. Pictures of the animal who murdered my mother take up the image. “What’s this?”
“The alleyway these were pulled from was three blocks over from where your mother was killed.”
A static noise buzzes in my head. My heart pounds in my ears, my veins pushing the blood through my body too fast. “What are you saying?”
“I was re-examining the tapes, to see if we could have missed anything useful to this new case, a connection.” He picks at the stitching on his seat.
“The police handling the evidence mislabelled the tapes, the cameras.” He slams a palm down on his steering wheel, “It was a mistake, they had him down as in the wrong alleyway. It couldn’t have been him who killed your mother.”
How incompetent is the NYPD? Reckless, idle assholes.
“He was still a piece of shit, but…”
“Are you saying my mother’s killer is still out there? That they have been this whole time?” My chest tightens as the world unravels around me.
I killed a man and his family because the police can’t do their fucking jobs.
“I’m sorry. I believe these are targeted attacks. The scenes are clean. Someone knew where these women would be.”
“Why? Why come at me this way?” It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.
“Someone with a grudge, is there anyone who comes to mind? An employee you let go maybe?”
“No,” I grit my teeth, irritated by his implication that someone under my own nose, my own employee, could have done this. Why not just kill me?
No, it has to be someone else.
“Don’t tell anyone else about my mother. My father needs closure. Him thinking it was an opportunist killing in a messed-up way is something he can deal with, but the thought that she was sought out…it would kill him.”
He looks over at me, his appearance more ragged every time I see him. “If I bury it, then we won’t have anyone looking into it.”
Like they can be trusted to find answers anyway. They got a man killed because they’re morons.
“I will,” I snarl. “This isn’t a debate, just get it done.”
Exiting the car, I call Marcello, telling him to meet me here.
The glass hits my office wall, raining down a shower of crystal shards to the carpet. Sinking into a chair, Marcello drops his head into his hands, his actions mimicking how I feel inside.
I can’t rid myself of the thoughts of my mother being ambushed and murdered. What must have gone through her head?