Page 143 of Remy

My heart pangs at the thought of the young man. It threatens to explode when my mind turns to Remy.

“I was told you were here last night,” Wesley murmurs from behind me.

I don’t bother responding.

Even though he’s become a reliable member of the team—one that Ivy and Allison adore—I’ll never be stupid enough to believe he has any loyalty toward me and my father.

“Everything has been cleaned and sterilized. And the temperature in the room is barely noticeable.” His footsteps carry forward. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Except how I gave aid to a criminal.

How I was driving a car that illegally transported a dead body.

And oh, maybe how the head of the East Coast mafia found me with the man I was told to stay away from.

That sounds like an anxiety cocktail to me.

“I plan to tell Ivy and Allison I spilled a bottle of bleach.” He walks into my periphery, cocking his head. “Are you happy to go along with the story?”

“Yeah.” I nod, the lies becoming easier to digest with how frequently they occur.

“Thanks. I’ll leave you to it.” He makes for the door.

“Wait.” I swing around to face him, damning my concern to hell. “Is Remy okay?”

No matter how hard I try I can’t stop thinking about him. His injury. His touch.

He gives a grave smile. “He’ll survive.”

“I meant emotionally as well as physically.”

“So did I.” He continues into the hall, leaving me with building unease.

I ditch my morning routine to help Ivy and Allison with their workload, mainly to distract them from going anywhere near the still-cooling cremator but also as a means of staying occupied.

Only my head doesn’t quit fixating on all things Remy.

I eat lunch upstairs with Dad after he excused himself mid-morning to make some “private business calls”—aka he took a well needed nap.

I expect him to grill me on what happened last night. I’m sure he must’ve heard the commotion. But there are no questions. No unease.

Instead he brings up stories about my childhood, reminding me of the good old days when my life wasn’t a complete mess.

The evening is spent staring at my phone, typing heartfelt messages of concern to a murderer only to delete them before sending because it still hurts to be labelled a mistake.

I arrive early again on Wednesday, wanting extra time to clear my head of all the criminal distractions, only to discover Wesley is already on site for the second day in a row with the cremation room tepid, and the retort warm to the touch.

I check my phone. How could I have missed a text from Remy?

It’s clear the equipment has been used. Only there’s no message. He didn’t contact me.

The low simmer of my concern shifts to weighty apprehension.

This wasn’t what we agreed on.

We had a deal.

But he’s grieving. He’s probably distracted… and I’m still a mistake.

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