He’s shaking his head, hands trembling, trying to straighten out his shirt, which is marked with crimson splotches of his own blood. “Not in danger from him. He said she was in danger from you.”
This gives me reason to pause. In my head I’ve been waiting for the right moment to finish what I’ve started; to beat Sam until he loses consciousness. But this statement has me backtracking. He can’t be fucking serious. Can not be fucking serious. Charlie thinks Lacey is in danger from me?
I don’t even bother laying hands on Sam. He’s too fucking pathetic. I turn and walk away, half wondering if he’s gonna retrieve his gun and shoot me in the back. I can imagine how it would feel with each and every step I take away from him—the searing burn of metal tearing into my body. The initial painless shock, and then the steadily building pressure that leads to the pain. The mind-numbing, all-consuming pain that tries to commandeer your brain, so you can’t think, feel, move past it. The pain never comes, though.
“Fine! You know what, go ahead! Go in there. Charlie’s gonna skin you alive, you fucking psycho!”
I keep on walking. The prospect of Charlie even trying is...well, it’s fucking delicious. He’s pushed me too fucking far. I will hunt the bastard to the ends of the earth and I will mount his head on a fucking spike before I rest easy again.
My mouth twists up into a smirk as I walk, because I’m pretty sure I’m about to set Charlie Holsan’s world on fire.
******
Charlie isn’t in his study. He’s not in his pretentious-ass library or anywhere else on the ground floor of his place either. I search the well-manicured grounds to the back of the building, and I search the pool house, too. Nothing. The bastard’s either ghosting me, or he’s upstairs. If he’s ghosting me, I will find him. If he’s upstairs, that means he’s probably with the Duchess. That could cause problems. Big ones. The Duchess is perhaps one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met—she still, after all these years, thinks Charlie’s a chartered accountant—but she’s also one of the nicest, too. It would serve no purpose to hurt her.
“Charlie!” I yell up the stairs, loud enough that my voice will reach every corner of the house. “CHARLIE!” Come and get your fucking ass kicked.
No answer. Not a sound.
Fucking perfect.
I start up the stairs, reaching behind me to take hold of the weapon that sits there: the Desert Eagle. It hasn’t seen much action recently. The last person it shot was Frankie Monterello. Today, it’s gonna shoot Charlie Holsan, and then...then it will never shoot another person again.
The top of the stairs; the corridor; guest bedrooms one and two; a bathroom; another study: all of these rooms are empty as I make my way across the house. Soon, the only remaining rooms are Charlie’s and the one opposite. The one I slept in for so many years—my old room. I check Charlie’s first.
The lamp on the bedside table is still on, even though daylight is pouring through the windows. The bed covers are flung back, rumpled in a welter of sheets in the middle of the mattress, and there’s a half glass of water resting on top of a book on the nightstand. A blister pack of medication sits alongside it. I enter the room checking behind the door like a fucking loser to make sure Charlie isn’t lurking there, ready to smash me over the head with some of his insanely over-priced, fucking ugly artwork. He’s not; that’s not Charlie’s style, but right now I’m not taking any risks.
I reach the bedside and pick up the blister pack—Degarelix. Degarelix? I feel the frown forming on my face. Why the hell is Charlie taking Degarelix? I’ve never heard of the drug before; I have no idea what it’s for. Is he sick? Surely—
The sound of running water, a toilet flushing, cuts through the heavy silence of Charlie’s usually bustling household. The en suite toilet. Damn, I should have noticed that the door was closed. I have the Desert Eagle in my hand, locked and loaded and aimed at the door in a heartbeat. The faucet sounds, someone washing their hands, and then the handle on the door turns. It seems to take forever for the door to open.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. C’mon, asshole. Get your ass out here so I can shoot you.
My finger’s halfway through pulling the trigger before I realize the person standing in the doorway isn’t Charlie. It’s the Duchess.
“Fucking hell, Sophie. I thought you were—” I stop talking. She’s crying. Black mascara is streaked down her face in dark runnels, and her nose is red. She’s beautiful, always has been—I think I got my very first boner over this woman—and the devastating sorrow on her face only seems to make her even more so. “What’s wrong, Sophie?”
She sniffs, lifting a hand to swat away her tears. That’s when I see the knife. And the blood. And the way that her whole body is shaking. The front of her silk lingerie, a subtle ivory by design, bears a violent red stain over her stomach, and one of the straps has fallen from her shoulder, exposing the curve and swell of one of her breasts.