Page 7 of Slaughter

“Widow?”

“No, sir.”

Interesting.

“She got a GED at the age of nineteen.”

“She didn’t graduate from high school?” That’s surprising.

“No, sir. She also has no record of current employment.”

I take a sip of my drink. “So she doesn’t work.”

“Maybe she gets paid under the table in cash,” he offers with a shrug.

“Maybe.” But that doesn’t sound like her. She had dreams. Growing up, she was always painting. She wanted to be an artist. And she was good. Great even. I never doubted her talent. But her family had money, so maybe she lives off that.

“As far as medical, I didn’t find much. She has a physician there in New York City along with a psychologist, but that was years ago.”

“For what?” I wonder.

“Doesn’t say,” he answers, looking over the paper. Then his eyes meet mine. “She also has an OB-GYN. A hysterectomy was performed but no date given.”

I tighten my hand on my glass.

He continues. “Past procedures include rhinoplasty done back when she was eighteen.”

“Rhino?” I ask confused. “She had her nose done?”

He nods.

“Breast augmentation a year later.”

She got a fucking boob job? What the actual fuck? She wasn’t conceited, but she was never ashamed or wanted to alter her body in any way.

“Oh, and she was in a car wreck when she was eighteen. Resulting in a coma for two weeks …”

“Give me that!” I yank it from his hands. My eyes scan over the medical report as I hear the engines of my jet roar to life. Three broken ribs. A broken nose. Punctured lung and broken wrists. Jaw wired shut. Goddamn! “That’s all it says?” I growl, going to flip through the pages, but there are no more.

He shrugs. “As I said, sir, I couldn’t find much. I didn’t have much time.”

My eyes go back down to scan it over again. “Does it say who the doctor was?”

“No, sir.”

I sit back in my seat, taking another drink, and then order, “When we get back, find out more.”

“How long are we gonna be in New York?” he asks while we make our way down the private runway, accelerating for takeoff.

“As long as it takes.” I take a drink, enjoying the burn before looking out the window into the Vancouver night.

“As long as what takes, sir?”

I take another drink, ending this conversation.

I’m coming for you, Bunny. And you have no fucking idea how much your life is about to change. For the worst.

CHAPTER THREE

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