assumed “watch out for my daughter” meant keeping an eye on her during the event, but clearly that isn’t the case. I’ve been put on babysitting duty, wining and dining Dorothy while the other guys could be getting up to anything. It puts me on edge, makes me wonder why I’m not with them.
Dorothy, on the other hand, doesn’t seem upset that she isn’t being included, which isn’t wholly surprising because she doesn’t fit the mold for this life. It’s as if she wants to be part of the business but doesn’t truly understand what that business entails.
Besides, Farrell is far too protective to allow her to truly hold any power. Showing your enemies—even the ones you’re doing deals with—who’s important to you is a surefire way to give them ammunition against you later.
Relationships are a weakness and when you play dangerous games, you have to be a fortress of strength.
So here I am with Dorothy, eating bruschetta wrapped appetizers and drinking wine in the hotel restaurant. It’s a swanky place, and while I know I should be focused on gaining her trust so she’s easier to flip, I can’t keep from wishing it wasn’t her across the table.
Her hair is silky and smooth, a beautiful brown any man would kill to sink their fingers into.
But I’d rather see it tangled and black.
Her eyes are soft and open, serene, like dipping in calm water on a sunny day.
But I ache to feel them raging like a storm.
And when she throws back her head and laughs, my mind wonders what it would sound like coming from someone else’s pouty lips.
“Is that your natural hair color?” I ask, trying like hell to take my mind off things that don’t matter.
Dorothy grins and runs a hand over the strands. “Yeah, why?”
I shrug. “Just wondering. Your sister dyes it. I was curious if you did the same.”
Her eyes drop the smallest bit but her smile widens. “Eveline started messing with her appearance the second our sister died. Lord knows why… maybe so her looks would match her black soul.”
She giggles like what she said is funny, but it isn’t. In fact, it makes me a little sad. “I’m sorry about your sister.”
Her lips purse and she reaches out, grabbing a piece of bruschetta-wrapped bacon from the center plate and popping it in her mouth. She chews, then takes a sip of wine before she speaks. “We weren’t close.”
“But she and Eveline were?”
I wasn’t planning on asking so many questions, but once again Eveline takes over every thought and her name continues to fall from my lips without me being able to help it. Besides, Dorothy seems a little drunk, and it would be stupid of me to miss an opportunity.
She takes another sip of Cabernet, the toe of her bright-red shoe tapping against the leg of the table. “Boating accident.”
“A crash?”
I already know of course, but the way Dorothy is fidgeting, her entire demeanor having changed from the carefree girl she was moments before, has curiosity bubbling at my edges.
She dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin before placing it back in her lap. “Just an unfortunate accident. I was there, you know? Nessa never really paid me any mind, not compared to Evie, but whenever she’d go on the water with Mayor Norman… she’d take me.”
Her eyes take on an odd gleam, almost as if she’s about to cry. Only, she never does.
“You know, they never even found her body,” she muses, picking up her wineglass again. “She’s just somewhere out there, decomposing at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
“Jesus, Dorothy. That’s morbid.” I cringe.
She laughs, taking another gulp of her drink. “Like I said… we weren’t close.”
I smile and nod, but I feel anything but light. There was an odd undercurrent in that conversation. Something that has my intuition jabbing at my spine, and I make a mental note to look deeper into Vanessa Westerly’s death.
Suddenly I feel the leg of my pants jostle, Dorothy’s shoe running up the length of my shin and then back down.
“You know, all this talk is boring me,” she purrs. “Want to get out of here?”
No.
I can’t fuck her.
I have zero interest in fucking her.
“Sure.” I clear my throat.
We get the check and charge it to my room before walking through the lobby and taking the elevator to the twenty-first floor where her room is. I stop in front of her door, and when she opens it to step inside, I stay behind in the hall.
She spins toward me, her brows drawing in. “Aren’t you coming?”
I shake my head. “As tempting as that offer is, I’d rather not end up on your dad’s shit list.”
She drops her gaze, slowly sliding it back up my body. “I won’t tell.”
Nausea teases my stomach as I lean in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Rain check.”
For the next two hours I pace in my room, my mind warring between staying put in case someone comes by or taking the risk by going to see my sister. It’s stupid, but I’m losing my mind sitting here and doing nothing.
Rose wins.
I slip out of my room, using the back stairwell and hurrying down four flights until I reach the back exit.
Our apartment isn’t in this part of town, but it’s not too far, and I can be there within twenty minutes on foot. I know I should stay away, it isn’t smart and it definitely isn’t safe, but I can’t resist the temptation to check in while I’m here.
Just for a minute. Just to make sure.
When I’m about three blocks away, I find an old pay phone hidden in the back of the Gas ’N Go. I rush to it, glancing around before moving into the small glass stall and fishing out some change from my pocket.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I mutter, jumping on my toes to keep my body from feeling the chilly Chicago air.
Her voice mail clicks on.
Damnit.
I try one more time and then give up, hanging the phone back on the receiver before making my way down the last three blocks, checking behind me every few feet. There’s no one around, but I can’t shake the eerie tingles occasionally creeping up my back.
The apartment building is tall and beige, a four-story shithole that has just enough working equipment to be considered “livable.” I skip over every other stair as I walk up the front steps and enter the door, my stomach tensing with nerves, although I’m not sure why I’m nervous. I haven’t seen her in a few months, but she’s still my sister.
The elevator to the right has caution tape slapped across the doors, the same way it has for the past two years, and I walk by it without a second thought, heading toward the stairwell that leads to our second-floor apartment.
My footsteps echo off the concrete walls as I hustle up the steps.
I reach our door, the large 4A gleaming against the muted red paint and I lift my hand to knock, rapping my knuckles until they ache.
Nobody answers.
Anxiety tightens my stomach.
It’s eleven at night, where the fuck could she be?
I knock again, this time pressing my ear to the door and jiggling the doorknob. I knew I should have brought my key, but I didn’t want anything on my person that could be taken. You never know when your items will end up in the wrong hands.
Still, no one answers.
Sighing, I rest my forehead against the door, sadness welling through my middle at the missed opportunity. I don’t know how much longer this case will last, but I’m halfway desperate to see Rose, hoping she’d get my head on straight.
Without her to ground me, I’m just a hollow, rusted shell, playing the part of a living, breathing man.
A noise from down the hall makes me raise my head, and before I can turn around click of a safety switch is in my ear, then the harsh press of metal against the back of my skull.
“Care to explain why the hell you’re here?”
