Page 49 of Remy

Yet apparently that doesn’t stop me from being attuned to his energy.

“Me being here during the day is a risk,” he mutters. “If I’m seen?—”

I unclasp my belt and shove from the car before he can change his mind.

I stride for the delivery room door and the little locked box screwed into the wall seeing as though my hasty escape earlier meant I left my keys inside. I’m pretty sure I left my innocence and happiness in there, too, but I’m not sure I’ll get those back.

I enter the PIN code, press the remote inside, and wait impatiently as the overhead door slowly rises.

A car door slams behind me, Remy’s approaching footsteps bringing anxiety. I don’t wait for him to catch up. I duck under the half-opened door and enter the delivery room to do a quick scan for signs of illegal activity.

There’s nothing. Not even the stench of urine and bile from earlier.

I hustle into the hall and do the same frantic visual sweep. Then move to the cremation room where I flick on the lights and pause in the doorway.

The air is warm, the heat still emanating from the dormant retort.

Everything is as it should be. There’s no sign of the struggle I endured or the trauma inflicted.

For some reason, I thought those horrific moments would’ve changed the space somehow. That my ordeal would’ve tainted the room, stained the walls, or shifted the foundation in some way.

Yet nothing is out of the ordinary.

I inch toward the retort, my heart in my throat as I wheel aside the gurney placed in front of it and check the primary chamber for remnants of the deceased.

Again, nothing.

No fissures of bone, titanium rods, or ball joints.

“I’m open to critiques if the cleanup isn’t to your standards.”

I tense, not only at Remy’s presence but my inability to critique even if I wanted to.

It’s as if the trauma never happened—his victim a figment of my imagination.

I turn to face him standing in the doorway, carrying the take-out food bag and coffee tray.

“How many?” I whisper.

I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. Not him, at least. I want a reliable answer I can trust, which means it can only come from my father. But intrusive thoughts have me in a chokehold.

He raises a brow. “How many?”

“You know exactly what I’m asking. How many crimes? How many bodies?”

“Enough.”

One word. No emotion. Just handsome, detached indifference.

“Enough for what?” I dare to demand. “My disgust? My hatred? The utter decimation of my faith in humanity?”

“All of the above.” He leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “Trust me, you don’t want to know my stats, pyro.”

I flinch at the nickname—how he always throws it in my face like a taunt.

I press a hand against my turbulent stomach. “How can you be so callous?”

“Compassion is something that’s taught. I never had a teacher. But you can rest assured that all those who’ve died at my hands are just as unworthy of life as I am.”

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