Page 50 of Remy

“Those people would’ve had families… Loved ones.”

He inclines his head. “True. The guy from last night had both. A wife. A son. But that kid was Thursday night’s barbecue.”

All the air escapes my lungs.

I stare at him, searching for guilt that has to be hidden somewhere. But no matter how hard I focus on those handsome features, my efforts are in vain.

He’s emotionless. Devoid of remorse.

“I need to get to work.” I swallow over my building nausea, refusing to let it weaken me. “Can I have my phone back?”

He shrugs. “Depends what you want it for?”

“To message my father. To listen to music.” To research the mastermind currently holding me hostage.

He gives me a pointed look as if hearing the thoughts I’ve left unspoken. “I’ll think about it.”

Asshole.

He raises a sardonic brow, as if hearing that, too.

I suck in a deep breath to stem the frustration. “Can you at least leave me alone to do my job? My decedents deserve privacy.”

He’s quiet a moment, his scrutiny giving me goose bumps. “You need to eat.”

A scoff escapes before I can clamp it down. “Given my duties, I’ve learned to stomach food through many emotions, Grim, but disgust isn’t one of them.”

His jaw ticks, my loathing seeming to affect him when the vilest of his atrocities doesn’t.

He pushes from the doorframe, towering to his full height. He walks toward me, his predatory steps decimating the space between us.

My pulse quickens and I fight against the need to backtrack as his callous gaze clutches me in its poisoned grip.

“Eat, Ollie.” He smacks the food bag on the metal gurney at my side, then does the same with the coffee tray. “God forbid you pass out in my presence. You wouldn’t want to learn what someone as vile as me is capable of when left to my own devices around an incapacitated woman.”

I remain frozen. Sickened.

He reaches inside his jacket.

I suck in a breath, waiting for a gun to be drawn. But it’s my cell he retrieves, clapping the device down beside the food.

Then he turns on his heel and strides from the room.

I don’t breathe again until he’s in the hall, my gasp for air hissing in my ears.

I ignore the food and grab my cell, unsure why he’d risk giving it back until I realize I don’t have to enter my security details to unlock the screen.

He’s bypassed my pin somehow. Probably added some form of spyware or blocked me from calling the authorities.

I don’t care.

My Google stalking can wait. For now, I settle for contact with my father, the lifeline enough to leave me feeling slightly appeased and naively protected.

I spend the passing hours working in the mortuary, messaging dad whenever my anxiety piques. I ask for updates and try to determine when he’ll need a ride home, completely ignoring the mafia noose around our necks.

His answers are vague.

Dad

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