Page 2 of Killing Emma

That thought causes my heart to take an extra beat, my palms sweating with anticipation. I can’t wait for the words to leave my lips…

“Run, Emma. Run.”

But right now, she has no idea what’s coming. Emma’s thick lips purse as she pours an overly full glass, and she then sets the bottle down on her butcher block kitchen island. She stares into the liquid, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell she’s thinking—if she is at all.

Is she missing her accountant ex-husband? Is she just that fucking lonely? Possible mental health problems? Or is this her happy? Fuck, she doesn’t look happy.

I don’t know the answers, and I don’t know why I’m wondering anything at all. Maybe it’s because for the first time in my career, I actually can’t figure out what type of fight she’s going to put up when I wrap my fingers around her pale throat. Part of me thinks she might just close her eyes and let go.

And I don’t like that. That’s not fun.

“So, lunch with Ivan Saturday?” Manny’s back in my ear.

I swallow the knot in my throat. “I don’t want to go to lunch. I’ve already told you. Ivan fucking hates me, remember?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

My jaw tenses. “I don’t like the reminder of my fuck up.” He falls silent at that, and as the words leave my lips, my mind pulls from Emma. It flashes with the images of my mentor—my own fucking father—lying lifeless on the floor, covered in blood. It’s amazing how many lives I can take and never think twice, but the life taken of someone I care about stays forever burned in my memory. It’s my only crutch.

Because it was my fault.

I shake my head and force it away, thinking of Emma, sweating and bloody in my grasp, cut from the same briars that got me. Fuck, I want the sun to set now. I don’t need any more alone time with myself or Manny, and as I shift my gaze back to the window, I nearly jump. Emma is standing right there, peering out into the evening as if she's searching for someone…

Something jars in my chest at the sight of the longing in her usual blank face. She can’t see me. I know that, but there’s still something unsettling about the sight, her hand resting against the glass—like she’s in a fucking prison and she's rotting away inside.

My stomach tightens as her lips stay flatlined. I don’t think she ever smiles. For some reason, I can’t even picture the woman with a grin on her face. Well, an authentic one. I’ve seen plenty of photos of her; a terse, fake smile pulling upward at her mouth in an almost painful way. I feel something. I push it away.

“I’m ready to move,” I grunt, no longer enjoying the view in front of me. Emma can’t be a person to me—she can’t. She’s just another body to add to the count, and it’s time to carve that notch into my headstone. She’s already affected my dick once today anyway; I don’t need her to reach any deeper than that.

I push myself off the tree I was leaning against and roll my shoulders. My traps are tense and tight beneath my black sweatshirt. I dig the mask from my hoodie pocket and fasten it to my face. I’d like to go out with a bang tonight. I could use a good fucking chase—anything to get my adrenaline pumping. However, as I step out into the clearing, Emma spins away from the glass, missing me by only a couple of seconds.

Well, that was fucking anticlimactic.

“Someone’s there,” Manny’s voice rings out with annoyance.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I scoff. “I’m going to kill the power.”

“No,” he snaps. “Get back to the tree line. It’s the husband.”

My shoulders fall. “Seriously? Why the hell is he showing up?”

“You act like I know or care. Just get back. I don’t want the cops to be called. This is high profile.”

“High profile?” I laugh quietly as I retreat to my cover. “This is hardly that. We’ve been here for two days, and the woman hasn’t left her house. She hasn’t even gone outside.”

“Doesn’t change the fact she’s worth millions.”

“With no one to give it to.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Manny says. “In fact, I don’t think anyone will miss this one. Her only contact is an outgoing phone call to an Oklahoma number every now and then—but not consistently. She’s listed as a writer, but she doesn’t have anything published. However, the last name makes her high profile, even if that’s the only thing. The media loves rich white women.”

“Sad,” I mutter, but my voice is emotionless as I creep to the front of the place, careful not to lose my cover. More thorns tear at my jeans, but it’s just another annoyance tonight has gifted me with. My eyes land on a white Porsche in the driveway. A dark-headed man, handsome by society’s standards, stands outside of the front door.

“Come on, Emma. Just answer the door!” he snaps loud enough for me to hear. “I just wanna talk to you. I don’t like the fact you’re ignoring me. I hate this.”

Damn, maybe she is cold.

Jared stands outside the house, his head falling to his hands, and I swear I hear his muffled sobs. I shift my weight uncomfortably. I’ve seen men cry before—a lot, actually—but they’re usually on the brink of death, begging for mercy. Mercy, I don’t give them.

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