Page 110 of Remy

Still, he doesn’t speak.

“I’m an asset, Remy. I can help cover your tracks.”

He doesn’t quit the silence.

I sigh. “Please say something.”

He swallows, his throat working over his Adam’s apple in a way that shouldn’t make me transfixed. “Wes said you’ve looked like hell all week. I assumed it was a trauma response from the weekend’s events. I thought it would wear off.”

“My problem is the future, not the past. Everything I hold dear is in the hands of people who consider my life expendable. Can’t you understand how hard that is to ignore?”

The muscles in his jaw flicker as if he’s actually taking in what I’ve said. Like he may even care.

Hope heats beneath my sternum, bringing energy to my limbs.

“What are you asking for exactly?” Dark eyes turn to mine.

“I don’t know what I can ask for. But I guess what I want is a little control—no. Ignore that. It’s not what I mean. I think the word that fits best is transparency. I want to know when you’re using the retort. To be aware so I can double-check you didn’t miss something.”

His chin hitches.

The silence stretches, becoming uncomfortable as he stares at me. Then finally, he mutters, “I’ll text you.”

I blink in confusion.

“When I use the retort.” He heaves a weary breath. “I’ll send a random message. One that won’t incriminate or allude to our agreement. Will that help you sleep?”

Yes. No… maybe.

A text would only give me the barest of details.

I’d be left to obsess over what type of killing it was. If I’d need to keep an eye out for blood. Bile. Body parts.

But it’s enough for now.

I nod. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Just be aware that if you?—”

“I know.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “You have the cops on your payroll and my death already planned.”

“It’s not planned, Ollie. The last thing I want to do is kill you.”

But I will remains unspoken.

I keep nodding despite the thundering headache. “I understand.” I grab the door handle before he has time to change his mind, only to have curiosity grab me by the throat. “One last thing…”

“Hmm?” He grunts.

“How did you know I was in trouble?”

He cringes, shame or maybe regret seeming to pinch his features. “I didn’t. I was only told you were at my club.”

“Who told you?”

“Someone working the door messaged to say you were asking about me.”

“The kid.” It’s not a question. I’m certain now.

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