Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Laith is never coming back.
He’s never going to ask me how my day was. Never going to touch me. Never get the chance to fall in love and make a family to care for. Never earn the title of becoming Blackstone’s best criminal lawyer. Never again tell me that everything is going to be okay.
And right now, nothing feels okay.
By the time I finally find the strength to lift myself off Laith, the pain has risen to a new high. The tears continue streaming down my face, and every time I wipe them away, they’re replaced with new ones, so I just don’t bother anymore.
Needing answers, I get to work, trying to put aside my grief to figure out what happened to my friend. My gaze immediately lands right on his chest at the carvings, and I know without a doubt there’s a message here somewhere.
Taking a shaky breath, I take my pen and turn to a new page in my notebook, trying to figure out what fucking message could have been so important to get to me that it was worth murdering someone as incredible as Laith Mitchell.
One by one, I find the letters, and the further I get, the sicker I become.
What in the ever-loving fuck is that supposed to mean? I broke his rules? There’s no way. I played his stupid game. I let him touch me at the club and went as far as to fuck him blind. I gave him exactly what he wanted and needed to fulfill his stupid game of hide and seek.
How can he claim that I broke his damn rules?
The grief turns to stone-cold rage as I continue looking over the message left on Laith’s chest. He put up a fight. I can only assume that’s referring to Laith. That he fought like a soldier right to the end, but as for the final two lines, I’m at a loss.
The clock is ticking. Obviously this must mean there’s some kind of countdown, but as for just how much time I have left, I haven’t got the slightest idea. It’s that last line that’s truly concerning me. I’ll get you at Knight. It’s not lost on me that there’s a double meaning here.
He’s warning me that he knows of my relationship with Knight, but is there more to it? Is Knight his next victim?
A part of me has hoped that he hasn’t clued in on my relationship with Knight, but I’d be a fool to make that assumption, especially after Knight made the bold move to fuck me right here in the morgue for our eager audience. And yet, I still hoped that for whatever reason, it could have been overlooked, and until now, it has, but not anymore.
I have to tell Knight. He has to know about this. He needs to know so he can be prepared. I can’t lose him, not like this.
I focus on the rest of the autopsy, and yet my gaze keeps returning to the carvings on his chest, that is until I notice the markings on his wrist. My brows furrow, and I look a little closer. Were his wrists bound?
It looks as though he’s had rope tied around his wrists for . . . shit. Parts of it appear fresh, as though it was just last night he was tied up, but other parts of his wrists appear old. At least a week old, but that’s not possible. I haven’t seen him in person for well over two weeks, but I have spoken to him plenty of times, especially over the last week. I FaceTimed him last weekend before Izzy and I went out, and then through the week, we’ve had our usual check-ins. But how could that be if his wrists have been bound for a week?
Has Laith been missing and I’ve been too caught up in my own world that I just didn’t notice?
Has my stalker had him all week? Is that why he hasn’t been by the morgue to terrify me, or why he hasn’t shown up in my bedroom with another creeptastic black rose?
The tears start all over again and as my heart breaks into a million little pieces, I continue scanning over his body. There are signs of stress. His hair is dirty, and there are dark rings under his eyes, and despite how he would tease both Izzy and me about doing ourselves up, he was the definition of a pretty boy. He would never leave the house with dirty hair. His skin care routine was better than mine.
There are a few random markings, small scratches, and dirt under his nails, but just like the two men from the club, there are no obvious markers that can conclude a cause of death. I finish the external part of Laith’s autopsy, and just as I go to reach for the scalpel, my hands start to shake.