Page 90 of Remy

He’d catered for me? Even when he suspected I’d deliberately tried to set him up in front of the cops?

“Liv, you told me that the worry you had for your mother during her cancer battle was a privilege.”

I swallow over the ache in my throat and slide the phone back to him. “It was.”

“Well, living a life on the right side of the law is also a privilege. One Remy wasn’t afforded.” He blinks pity-filled eyes at me. “His parents weren’t kind to him, fragolina.”

I swallow again. Swallow so hard it hurts. “What did they do?”

“I’ve spent six months learning what I can only assume is a fraction of the atrocities.” He gives a sad smile. “But there’s no time for that now. You need to prepare Alexandra. Just know, not everyone is afforded the benefit of morality.”

But we were. We could’ve still been.

“I understand.” I nod. “But Dad, about Wesley…”

“You don’t need to worry about him.” He waves me away. “Yes, he’s here to keep an eye on things, but it’s mainly to ease my workload in case I fail to keep up after future treatments. He’s going to take over out-of-hours calls and pick up the slack when I fall short. Which will not only bring me some appreciated relief but also add a measure of freedom for the arrangements we have after-hours.”

Scratch arrangements. Rephrase to criminal activity.

“It’s going to be okay, Liv.”

I keep nodding. Keep playing along. For now. “And these treatments, when are we going to discuss those in greater detail?”

“When the time is right.”

I’m leveled with my third faux charming smile of the day, and this one scares me the most.

“Let’s get over one hurdle before we take on the next.”

18

OLIVIA

The next eight hours pass with a packed schedule that doesn’t allow room for Allison or Ivy to grill me over being late and looking like a swamp monster.

They leave with cautious goodbyes as if waiting for me to explain myself, but I don’t engage in anything other than a quick farewell and a half-hearted finger wave.

I escort Dad upstairs, making sure he’s settled and has a fridge full of food. I don’t pester him about the cancer. It’s clear he’s exhausted, and I can barely keep my eyes open so I kiss his cheek, tell him how much I love him, and catch an Uber home to a quiet house that still lingers with the woodsy scent of Remy.

Alexandra’s service concluded without a hitch. The news coverage was respectful. The Pelosi Funeral Home was portrayed in an exceptionally professional and compassionate manner. So much so that I’m sure we’ll see an increase in business over the coming months.

That thought alone should be enough to deplete what’s left of my drained energy. But as soon as I enter my living room and catch sight of the devices I’d previously given Remy now sitting on my dining table, a resurgence of energy courses through me.

I don’t care that the electronics supposedly have tracking software, or how my searches will be monitored. I grab my laptop, slump down on my sofa, and start an online search on Remy Costa.

Page upon page of results fill the screen, most dated prior to last year.

Playboy Fashion Heirs Release New Clothing Line

Style, Status, and Success: The Untold Story of a Fashion Prodigy

Tragedy Strikes as Alleya Warehouse Engulfed in Blaze: Remy Costa Speaks in Wake of Fire

The headlines don’t track with the man I know.

Fashion heir? Prodigy? Playboy?

I dig deeper, adding keywords—controversy, criminal, Baltimore.

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