Page 68 of Remy

I take a bite of burrito, praying that outcome doesn’t eventuate. “Thanks for the clarification.”

“Do you believe me?” She stares at me, her gaze hopeful.

Jesus Christ.

Her viciousness was a drug. Her anger an injection of lust.

But expectant Ollie? Imploring Ollie?

That shit shoves its greedy little hand straight through my chest to grasp my heart in a death grip.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” I take another bite. “For now.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” She pads toward me, the plush material of her pajamas hugging her curves. “Who was outside?”

“A friend.”

“Should I be worried that another dangerous man now knows where I live?”

“No.” I shove more food in my mouth. “He’s just a kid. He’s no threat. He brought me a fresh suit and our breakfast.” I tilt my burrito in her direction. “It’s good, by the way. You should eat.”

She glances at the take-out bag, then the wrapped burrito in front of her.

“You don’t like burritos?” I ask.

“I do. It’s just…”

“What?” I say around a mouthful. “You think I’ve done something to the food?”

“No.” She scrunches her nose. “I’m still struggling with my appetite. This situation is a gold-star weight-loss program.”

I don’t want her to lose weight. She’s perfect the way she is. Slim and taut in places. Lush and rounded in others.

“But I did spend most of the night trying to justify everything that’s happened,” she continues. “I didn’t get to a point where I can condone what you do, but I’m slowly coming to the understanding that your agreement with my father wouldn’t change how you conduct your business. Those people would still die, right?”

“Right.” Although the effortless disposal does make the complication of murder a hell of a lot easier.

She continues focusing on the food, her brow furrowing, the etch of dismay digging across her forehead.

“So what part has killed your appetite?” I want to see her eat. To nurture her instead of torture her, no matter how fucking pathetic that makes me.

That cute little scrunch in her nose increases. “I can’t stop seeing his body. Can’t quit hearing the groan.” Her gaze rises to mine. “I feel responsible for that man’s death.”

Her suffering does shitty things to me. Uncomfortable, fucked up things. It has since the moment I walked into the funeral home’s delivery room early yesterday morning.

What a troublesome fucking time to grow a conscience.

I take the last mouthful of burrito and ball up the trash before sliding the manila cardboard toward her. “Open it.”

She frowns and takes the chair in front of her, hesitating as her fingers brush the offering. “Do I need to prepare myself for what’s inside?”

“Probably.”

She sits taller, her eyes curious as she drags the file closer, then finally flips it open.

I expect a gasp. A cry, maybe.

I get neither.

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