Her heart thumped in her chest as she faced the revolving doors, staring into the lightness and bustle of the lobby. People rushed through, scanning a keycard at a security turnstile before heading toward a massive bank of elevators that serviced all twenty-nine floors of the building Alexander Burnham owned. The top few floors housed the security company, the rest of the floors being rented by various businesses. Knowing how pricey the lease was on her small bakery, her head spun just thinking about the amount of money Alexander received every month in rent alone, while she struggled to rub two pennies together.
She considered walking through those large revolving doors and going up to see Alexander. At least once a week following the funeral, he had shown up on her doorstep to check on her, but she was never able to muster enough strength to let him in the house she once shared with Landon. She was surrounded by memories everywhere she turned. She couldn’t face a living, breathing reminder of everything she had lost.
Maybe she was now standing in front of this building for a reason. Maybe being around someone who knew Landon as well as, if not better than, she did was precisely what she needed to move on.
She had hoped that sharing her grief with others every Thursday night would help, but it didn’t. It had been an entire year and she still felt the same…stuck in a rut. Maybe it was because she hadn’t shared her grief with someone who could truly understand. No one in the support group could truly sympathize with her pain because they didn’t suffer that same loss. The only person who could truly understand was Alexander, the same man Mark insisted was the cause of it.
About to step toward the revolving doors, she was caught off guard when a large body bumped into her from behind. She stumbled, catching herself, and stared at the tall, intimidating figure rushing past her, not even offering an apology. He barked orders on his phone, the designer coat and shoes he wore making it clear he was in charge. He pushed through the doors and into the lobby, then turned around and their eyes met.
She inhaled a quick breath as she stared into that vibrant green hue. From behind, he looked like every other corporate executive in the city, apart from the height, but those eyes were unmistakable, the green as clear as shimmering emeralds. She held his gaze through the glass doors, almost sensing a hint of recognition. Then, in the blink of an eye, he snapped out of his trance. Spinning around, he carried on with his phone call, continuing through the lobby.
Her heart deflated. He recognized her. She saw it in his eyes. But instead of approaching her, he simply ignored her, his phone call obviously more important than a thin, haggard-looking, thirty-something woman standing in front of his building.
Struggling to fight back tears, she turned, clutching her jacket against her as she walked the busy city street, fighting the crowds of professionals descending upon the city the Friday before Christmas. Everyone seemed happy, which made Rayne even angrier. All of these people would go home at the end of their day to a husband, a wife, a daughter, a son. They would sit in their living room and watch the lights of their tree twinkle. They would bake cookies and laugh. They would watch Christmas movies together in preparation for Santa’s big night.
The farther she walked, the angrier she became. In a flash, everything had changed. Seeing how normal Alexander was made her irritation grow to a height it had never been before. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. Her chest clenched and she became short of breath. Her face grew heated, despite the frigid temperatures, and she felt as if her legs were about to give out beneath her. She supported herself against a brick wall, but no one paid her any attention. Why would they? They probably thought she was just a homeless drug addict. And wasn’t she?
She had lost everything. Her home. Her career. Her family. She now lived in a small, barely habitable studio apartment in Dorchester. In a year’s time, she had fallen so far from where she once was, but Alexander hadn’t. If anything, he was even more successful, having even more than he did this time last year. He hadn’t suffered like she had. And she hated him for that.
Mark was right. She needed to make someone else feel her pain, and that person was Alexander. He may not have been the one who took Landon’s life, but his inaction made him just as culpable. It was time he finally felt the same pain Rayne had endured since watching Landon’s casket, filled with nothing but memories, be lowered into the ground.
Chapter Six
December 18
8:05 AM
SWIRLS OF BLUE MIXED with purple ingrained in Alexander’s mind as he tried to remember where he had seen those eyes and that face before. She seemed so familiar, yet a complete stranger at the same time. Her red hair appeared weighted down by dirt. Her skin was pale, her face gaunt. Her hollow eyes were devoid of almost all emotion. Despite the emptiness, he sensed something in those colorful eyes. Hope maybe? He’d racked his memory, trying to place where he had seen her before, but came up short. Years in the security field taught him to never forget a face, and hers was completely unfamiliar, despite the nagging in his head that he should know her.
“The background checks you asked for, sir,” somebody said, bringing him out of his unease as he strode down the hallway of his company’s building located in the financial district of Boston.
He looked up to see Martin, his right-hand man, standing just outside his office door, his posture taut, his expression all business. Alexander had known him almost his entire life. He had been his father’s go-to guy before Alexander took over the company nearly two decades ago. Still, he could probably count on one hand the number of times he had seen Martin display any sort of emotion. He was professional to a fault.
He handed Alexander a small folder as he walked into his office. Alexander took his coat off and tossed it on the loveseat.
“Anything stand out to you?” he asked, perusing the contents of the folder as he lowered himself to the couch opposite the loveseat. Propping his legs on the coffee table, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his suit jacket, trying to focus on what Martin was saying, his mind still elsewhere. Haunting purple eyes flickered on the pages in front of him, a ghost of his past sent to remind him of all his failings, as if Mischa’s death wasn’t reminder enough.
“She lived what appears to be a simple life,” Martin began, summarizing what he’d found in the few short hours since Alexander had ordered him to the office early to dig up everything he could on Mischa Tate. “Other than her brother and her being taken away from their parents at an early age and raised by their maternal grandparents, nothing stands out that could indicate a motive or who could be responsible for her murder.” He paused, his expression grave. “Your brother-in-law may be right, sir. She may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and tragically became another victim of the Castle Island Killer. Simpson was able to access the police files on those deaths.”
“And?”