Page 125 of Remy

Headlights cut through the parking lot.

Remy’s Bentley comes around the corner of the building faster than necessary, the familiar van carrying his men hot on his ass.

I remain in my car as the overhead door rises, but instead of Remy parking outside and the van driving into the building, the opposite happens.

I sit confused as the Bentley speeds inside, the van pulling into the closest parking space beside the delivery room door, then Remy’s men rush out.

I don’t like this.

It’s frantic. Panicked. Nowhere near the calm control of the usual disposals.

I cling to my cell and keys then climb from my car to pad cautiously across the parking lot.

Shoes would’ve been helpful. A bra and underwear, too.

The cool spring night whispers over my arms and chest, but it’s not the temperature that has my skin breaking out in goose bumps. It’s the vibe. A sixth sense.

I reach the raised overhead door and stop to assess the situation.

Remy remains in the vehicle, his door open, his feet planted outside, elbows on knees, head hung.

He’s usually flawless while doing the devil’s work. Calm. Commanding. But tonight is different. He doesn’t notice me in his periphery. Doesn’t stop staring at the floor beneath his feet.

I can only see one of his men, the dark-haired guy reaching into the backseat of the Bentley to gently haul out a limp body. A limp male body. One far too lanky and lean to have reached adulthood.

“What the hell?” I whisper as blood drips to the floor.

The second man returns to the delivery room through the internal doors, hastily pushing my metal gurney toward the car.

They’ve never done that before, either. Never cared about using the gurney. From what I’ve seen, the cartage of dead bodies has only ever been done unceremoniously by grasped wrists and ankles.

“What’s going on?” I add steel to my tone.

Remy’s men ignore me.

Remy does, too.

I continue inside, transfixed as the men I’ve mostly known to be silent, threatening automatons place the body onto the metal transport with cautious, deliberate care.

“Is that a child?” I can’t see the victim’s face, but even the shaggy hairstyle speaks of a younger age.

The decedent can’t be older than sixteen. Seventeen, max.

“You killed a child?” I can barely control my whisper-shouted tone.

I storm for Remy as his men pause at the double doors leading to the hall, their hate-filled eyes skewering me with warning.

I’m fueled by devastation. Empowered by disgust.

This can’t be a part of the agreement. It’s too much. Too immoral.

“You killed a child?” I repeat, stopping in front of his hunched form in the driver’s seat.

He straightens, his face slowly raising to look up at mine with such devastatingly tortured eyes it steals my breath.

“Yes” is all he says.

One fractured, tormented word.

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