Page 59 of Remy

“Fuck this.” I grab my coat from the backseat and climb from the car, convincing myself I’m performing a perimeter check when what I’m really doing is trying to get eyes on her again.

I scan the front windows as I stalk the drive, my head hung low in case she’s got nosy neighbors. I listen for movement as I pass the left side of the house and continue into the backyard.

The garden is bathed in twilight, the few trees and shrubs casting dark shadows over the lawn.

I slow my stride along the back of the house and yank on my coat, the chill seeping into my bones. Still, I hear nothing. See nothing. No cries or hiccupped sobs. No flicker of illumination or twitch of drapes.

I turn down the far side of the building, stalking between the vinyl siding and the chin-high pale fence to her neighbor’s yard. When I reach the glass sliding door to her laundry, I pause.

Again, there’s no movement from inside.

Salvo will fucking kill me if he finds out I’ve been playing Russian roulette with our lives all because of a pretty face.

I return to the Bentley, pull out my cell, and distract myself from my building temper by making phone calls.

I lay down the law with Russo and Valenti.

I chat with my sister and niece.

I even dial Salvatore’s number and pretend my drunken ass is out trolling to get laid instead of being the sober fuck who’s freezing his balls off while staking out a woman who makes me dispense more wood than a lumber mill.

Still, no movement.

Did she go to bed? Is she curled up on the sofa crying? Is she the type to self-harm?

Fuck.

I scrub a hand over the back of my neck and stare at those front windows for another ten minutes, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

I clench my way through ten more, my stomach growling in both hunger and frustration.

This damn fucking woman.

If she hurts herself I’ll…

I shove from the car yet a-fucking-gain.

I follow the path I made earlier—through the carport and into the backyard. I listen at every window, attempting to spy through curtains. To listen at doorjambs.

When I reach the laundry, I test the handle to the glass sliding door only to find it locked.

“I should’ve killed you and saved myself the trouble,” I snarl under my breath.

I turn, determined to pound on the front door until she answers when a bright light blinds me from over the pale fence.

Shit. I squint, shielding my eyes with one arm as I reach behind my back for my gun with the other.

“Don’t move,” an elderly female voice calls.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

“I have a weapon,” the crone croaks. “And I’ve already called the police.”

Fuck my fucking life.

“I’m not an intruder.” I continue gliding my right hand beneath my coat, then my suit jacket, splaying my other palm in placation. “I’m doing a welfare check on Ollie.”

“Ollie?” She scoffs. “That girl hasn’t been called Ollie in the three years I’ve known her. Now move away from her door before an arthritic spasm has me mistakenly pulling the trigger.”

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