Page 87 of The Villains We Make

“Nigella needed me. There may be something.”

“What?”

“Not sure yet but I’ll tell you when I see you. Hamish should be there. I sent you a text. You didn’t see it?”

“My phone was silenced during the service, and I hadn’t looked, but Hamish is here.”

“Good. Go home with him, Ophelia. Please.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to see the burial anyway, honestly. “But you’re going to explain everything when you’re home once and for all. Agreed?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Agreed.”

I disconnect.

“Come on, Phee. It’s over. Let’s go,” Dad says.

I glance at the grave site and am glad Ethan and Mira are talking to someone and slip away, into the SUV with Hamish with my dad following us to the brownstone.

32

SILAS

Iwalk out of that church, not caring about the dozens of eyes on my back, not hearing their whispers and theories about the illegitimate son over the sound of the organ. I call Nigella as soon as I’m out the doors, not even caring about the rain as I make my way to the SUV.

“Nigella. What did they find?”

“He won’t say over the phone. I sent you the location. Did you get that?”

“I have it. It’s a half hour the wrong way from Boston. Can’t they just send me the video?”

“No. It’s deemed sensitive. He’s giving us a heads up before he calls that idiot detective, and that’s thanks to my charm.”

“Or my money.”

“Yeah, probably that.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m headed out to their building now. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”

Between people driving like idiots in the rain and general traffic, it takes me forty-five minutes to get to the address Nigella texted. It’s an obscure space housed in a squat building that looks like it should have been taken down about a decade ago. From a decal on the wall, it used to be a tire company.

There are only a few cars in the lot, and I park beside Nigella’s Bentley, which looks entirely out of place. I hurry to the nearest door where I’m greeted by Nigella who is waiting for me in a makeshift lobby that smells like rubber.

She looks like she’s taking care not to touch anything.

“This was the only place that could do this?” I ask, not really knowing her contacts, usually pleased just to have the results.

“It’s footage from an open murder investigation. You can imagine people aren’t jumping up screaming ‘pick me’ to break the law. This way.”

I walk beside her down a hall where the overhead fluorescent flashes annoyingly. “But these guys are going to turn it in?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Who knows?” We turn a corner, and she opens a door. “Aaron, this is Silas Cruz. You’ll recognize his name from the hefty bank deposit, I’m sure.”

Aaron, a nerdy, lanky guy who smells vaguely of hot dogs stands up and extends his hand. I shake it because it would be rude not to.

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