Page 54 of Remy

“No, listen,” he begs. “I know the decision I made was unethical, but that’s all it was or ever will be—a decision. I’m not a participant in any illegal activity. I don’t know what goes on downstairs while Remy’s there. I hire out the cremator. That’s all. What happens while it’s used isn’t my business. The agreement is that I don’t get involved. I’m not given incriminating information, and I don’t bear witness to any unlawful activity.”

I drag my attention to Remy. A silent lucky Dad sits on the tip of my tongue.

I yearn to destroy the trust my father has in this man. To decimate the relationship that’s violently contrary to the one I have with the murderer.

“How much is the hire fee?” I continue to hold Remy’s gaze, pretending not to be intimidated. If he’s cheating my father, all bets are off. I’ll blab. Rat. Whatever the hell he wants to call it. Because putting our freedom on the line for a few hundred dollars isn’t going to cut it.

“Twenty thousand.” Remy slides his hands into his pockets, a laid-back checkmate gesture if there ever was one.

I snap my lips shut to stop a gasp.

“Does that meet your expectations?” He raises a demeaning brow.

I open my mouth. Close it again.

Twenty thousand? Is that a one-time fee? Per year? Per month?

“Every use,” he clarifies, yet again reading my mind.

“It’s a lot of money.” The sofa creaks as my dad ambles to his feet. “It’s allowed me to get the best treatment, Liv. I’m doing far better than where I would’ve been without his help.”

I bite my tongue, refusing to be thankful, loathing that maybe I should be.

“Will you tell me how you found out?” Dad wanders toward me. “I’ve felt so guilty for not being here. Remy messaged me vague details, but there’s only so much that can be shared on the phone without it becoming incriminating.”

Hearing him speak freely about messaging a criminal sits like a lead balloon in my gut.

“You said you fell asleep downstairs,” Dad encourages.

I nod and side-eye Remy, trying to get a gauge on how he feels about this line of questioning, but yet again, his expression is unreadable. “I started preparing Amisha and the baby. It got late without me noticing so I thought I’d sleep in the break room. Then a noise outside woke me.”

Remy’s jaw tightens.

Good. Fear my volatility, you son of a bitch.

All it would take is a few words to blow this agreement to pieces—he pulled a gun on me. He made me dispose of a body.

“It’s okay, fragolina.” Dad grasps my upper arms, rubbing gently. “You can tell me.”

God, how I wish I could. But evil is destined to win this round.

“Remy was standing in the hall—” I swallow over the horrid taste of the lie. “—just as shocked to see me as I was to see him.”

The subtlest of smirks tweaks one side of the asshole’s lips. Another faint triumphant gesture.

Fucking prick.

“I bet you were so scared.” My father squeezes my arms.

Petrified, Dad. Traumatized.

“I still am.” I meet my father’s gaze, drowning in the waves of apology that stare back at me. “I don’t know how I’ll ever not be.”

His brows soften. “You’ll learn to trust him. I know you will.”

Before or after hell freezes over? Because right now, I can’t think of anything less likely than me gaining faith in a man who sees death as sport. I’ve got more chance of receiving presidential recognition for my socializing skills.

“We should go.” Remy pushes off the recliner to stand to his full height. “Carlo needs to rest.”

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