Page 31 of Remy

“That’s a tough break for the poor guy. But no, he has nothing to do with this. You need to think a little closer to home.”

Allison?

Ivy?

I shake my head. They wouldn’t give away a key. Not for legitimate reasons, let alone criminal ones… would they?

Remy sighs, returning the gun to the gurney, the barrel still aimed in my direction. “It started the night we met, Ollie. It wasn’t fate that brought us together. It was the meeting your father had scheduled with my brother, Salvatore.”

Icy dread enters my veins.

I keep shaking my head, denying the connection, refuting the implication.

“They formed a partnership of sorts,” he continues. “One that’s been smooth sailing until now.”

My head works on a swivel. Back and forth. Back and forth. “You’re a liar. My father would never?—”

“Your father needs the money, and we pay him generously.”

No. Times were tough after my mother died. Not that Dad admitted to anything out loud, but I’d seen the medical bills scattered across his desk. I’d noticed how he cut back on expenses. How he scrimped and saved for years while he put me through my degree in mortuary science until the dust seemed to settle. Or, more accurately, until a pandemic made our family business a far more prosperous career choice.

We don’t need the money.

We might not be filthy rich like the murderer before me, but we’re comfortable. We’ve had the means to invest back into the business. Dad purchased the brand new hundred-thousand-dollar retort last year, for heaven’s sake.

“If my father is involved it’s because you blackmailed him.” I stand tall. “You’re threatening him.”

“Did he look threatened that night?” Remy raises a brow. “When you were at the bar, batting your lashes at me, were you concerned for his safety? Or were you comfortable enough to leave him to his conversation while you fucked around with a stranger?”

My throat burns. My cheeks, too. “He doesn’t need the money.”

“Parents have secrets, Ollie. Believe me, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

“He doesn’t need the money,” I repeat, almost shouting my denial. “He wouldn’t do this.”

“He has for six months.” He taps the gurney with the hilt of his weapon. “Now tell me how to get this thing moving. My men usually dump the bodies straight into the retort.”

He attempts to push the heavy weight, the brakes making it impossible.

He glances beneath the metal tray, scrutinizing the wheels while I stand numb and hollow.

“Like I told you—” He shoves the gun into the waistband of his suit pants and stomps the closest wheel brake. “—it’s going to be okay. You’re in shock, but it’ll wear off.” He strides around the gurney, tapping off each brake. “All you need to do is keep your head down and toe the line.”

Toe the line? Impossible. I can’t be involved in this. And I refuse to believe my father is. At least not willingly.

“Olivia,” he grates. “I don’t have time to fuck around. Lead the way before I lose my patience.”

My arms fall to my sides, my feet heavy as I numbly comply.

I don’t understand.

The panic is too loud to think through.

I enter the hall, the soft squeak of the gurney following behind me to the delivery room.

How could the guy at my back be the same man who inspired the last six months’ worth of sinful daydreams? How could I have missed who he truly was—a criminal? A murderer?

I hold open the double doors of the delivery room, allowing Remy to pass me and continue to the lifeless body sprawled on the floor.

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