Page 36 of The Bitter Truth

After what felt like an eternity, he finally heard Boaz’s footfalls on the stairs, but he wasn’t coming down empty-handed. He had the bedroom’s rug in hand, rolled into a cylinder, and was grunting as he dragged it down. There was a body inside the rug—he could see the hair sticking out the top corner.

Boaz stopped, dropped the heavy rug, then fixed his eyes on Dominic. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a pair of plastic gloves and tossing them to him.

“Put those on and help me put the rug in the bed of the truck.”

Dominic did as he was told, and as Boaz picked up the heavier end of the rug, Dominic went for the feet. They ambled out of the door, Dominic grunting as he moved, until Boaz slid his end of the rug onto the bed. He helped Dominic push the rest of it up then closed the hatch.

“Now what?” Dominic breathed. Because surely this couldn’t be it. There was bound to be blood upstairs, his DNA. John’s DNA.

“That fireplace work?” Boaz asked, pointing to the living room.

Dominic peered back at the cold, empty fireplace. “I’m sure it does.”

“Good. Find some wood, burn those gloves and your clothes, take a shower, and put a fresh set of clothes on. I’ll deal with the body. Someone will be here tonight around nine or ten. He’ll clean up the bedroom, make it look like she was never here. Do not leave until I call you.” He stepped outside, pointing at the cameras. “You’re sure all the cameras are off?”

“Yes. I’m positive.”

“Whose house is this?”

“John Bolton. He’s a politician here in New Orleans. He was here last night, and he has a lot on the line. Last thing he wanted was to be seen so he made sure to have the security system and cameras off during my stay.” Plus, Dominic made sure. He’d called John to double check about the cameras when he’d prepared Brynn’s apple juice, and that’s when he’d given John the greenlight to swing by.

“Okay, well like I said, don’t leave until I call. And if I were you, I’d get in touch with this John Bolton character and tell him not to mention you were ever in his rental.”

“Why? Do you think people will know she was here?”

Boaz glared at Dominic. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

Dominic watched Boaz as he picked up a tarp from the back of the truck and covered the rug. He strapped it down with bungee cords, lugged out the trunk bed cover, and when it was secure and everything was concealed, he climbed behind the wheel and started the truck. The engine rumbled to life, causing a vibration in Dominic’s chest. The truck pulled off and he stood at the door, watching it leave the driveway, move past the gate, and turn onto the street.

THIRTY-TWO

JOLENE

One thing I love about Wednesdays at Regal Tea Boutique is that business booms. This means all my employees are busy, and none of them see me as I enter through the back door of the building, climb the short flight of steps to the loft, and head straight to my office.

I drop my purse on the desktop and sit in the cushioned brown leather chair with an exaggerated sigh. Even a floor up, I smell the freshly baked scones, brewing variations of tea, and lovely petit desserts for our teatime sessions.

Right now, we’re hosting afternoon tea and it’s a full house. The parking lot was packed and I’m thankful that my business runs so smoothly, even on days when I’m not around. If only I could rejoice in the success, take pride in all that I’ve accomplished when many thought it wouldn’t take off. My mind is all over the place. About Dominic, of course. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, and my visit from Daphne and Ricardo last night caused me a lack of sleep as my decision weighed heavily on my mind. A cup of tea or two will do me good right now, so I send a text to Sally, the store manager, and request an order.

I log into my computer and check emails, as well as the schedule to make sure people have been clocking in on time. I check the books, and all seems to be smooth, so I make my way down to the kitchen to grab my tea.

“It’s nice to see you in, Mrs. Baker,” Sally says in front of a tray. The tray is topped with a matching porcelain tea set hand painted with Japanese cherry blossoms. Along with the set is a glass cup filled with honey, another filled with cubes of sugar, and a mini three-tier tray. I love the three-tier tray the most—gold plates with three levels of foods to choose from. The bottom consists of crustless sandwiches, the middle of scones with cream and raspberry jam, and the top hosts mini desserts like cakes, cheesecakes, and pies. We like to make the trays as regal as possible and stick to traditional English standards, hence the name of my shop.

“A little work will do me good. How is Veronica?” I ask, and Sally beams as she picks up the tray, heading for the swinging doors. Veronica is her three-month-old baby.

“Oh, she’s perfect, Jolene. I’ll show you pictures when it slows down!”

“Please do!”

Sally leaves the kitchen and another woman pops in. Her curly hair is pulled into a cute mop atop her head, her skin the color of coffee with too much cream. Sleeves of tattoos cover both her arms. She has small freckles on her nose. “Jessica, right?” I ask as she collects another tray set up with tea and food.

“That’s me.” She smiles, giving me a look. I’m not sure what that look means, but I disregard it when she says, “Busy today!”

“That’s a great thing! You’re doing an amazing job. Keep at it.”

When she leaves, so do I. I return to the office to respond to more mails and make a few calls. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can head home and get ready for my cycling class. I’m in the middle of calling up one of my suppliers when there’s a knock at the door.

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