Page 92 of Remy

“I can see that. But we didn’t get time to talk yesterday, and I wanted to make sure you know I’m here to help.”

Help? No, he’s here to spy. To do whatever is necessary.

“Are you helping me or them?” I mutter under my breath.

He falls quiet a moment. “I thought we were all on the same team.”

Shit. We’re supposed to be. I still have the raised flesh on my fingertips to prove it. I’m not playing my cards right.

“We are.” I ignore the skitter of apprehension traveling down my spine and focus on smoothing out the sculpting clay filling the gash near Mrs. Clarke’s temple after her life-ending fall down a flight of cement stairs. “I’m just tired. It’s not easy trusting the process.”

“That’s understandable.” He opens the door wider and leans against the doorjamb. “From what I’m told, your dad had a few teething problems with that, too.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” I try not to be huffy. To bite my tongue. But it feels like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. My brain won’t stop with the panicked thoughts. I’ve constantly got Dad running through my mind. His health secrets haunt me.

Then there’s Remy, the man who helped and harassed me in equal measure. The same guy whose phantom scent still lingers in my lungs.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” Wesley offers.

“Sure.” I keep smoothing out Mrs. Clarke’s clay, hoping the whole ignore-him-and-he’ll-go-away trick from prep school still works.

“No, honestly, I am. You guys seem like good people. If there’s anything I can do to ease your mind or make this situation more tenable, let me know.”

I pause, the thing I want most shoving to the forefront of my consciousness as I glance up at him. “Can I have his phone number?”

Wesley leans back to peer down the hall, then lowers his voice. “Remy’s?”

I sure as hell have no interest in seeing or hearing from Lorenzo or Salvatore again, so, I reply, “Yeah. Remy’s.”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to disclose that info, but I can pass on a message. What do you want me to tell him?”

I’m hit with another wave of apprehension, this one pummeling right into my chest. “Forget it.”

I’m not supposed to have anything to do with the Grim Reaper—Lorenzo’s orders. I can’t risk rule-breaking so soon into this criminal agreement… at least not in such an obvious way.

I close my clay container and busy myself tidying up my work station.

“You sure there’s nothing else?” Wesley pushes from the doorframe.

“Actually, there is one thing.” I turn to face him, pulling off my latex gloves. “You can stay away from Ivy. She likes to flirt. Don’t get any ideas.”

He gives a subtle smirk, one Ivy would eat up like whipped cream on a chocolate sundae if given the chance. “I won’t. In return, you should focus on making sleep a priority. I promise everything is under control.”

There’s something pointed about his dictate. As if he knows I spent half the night spying on the cremator.

“Yes, sir. I’d also appreciate if you paid more attention to the sign on my door. It’s not there for decoration.”

“Fair enough.” He inclines his head and retreats. “But make sure you call out if you need anything.” He closes the door with the softest, most respectful click.

I throw my gloves to the trash and clasp onto the edge of my prep table, leaning into the exhaustion for a few brief moments.

I need to get Remy’s number. I won’t sleep tonight without it. I probably won’t sleep ever again unless I know more about his illegal activities whilst under my father’s roof. And as horrible as it is to acknowledge, I can’t trust my dad to tell me the truth.

“God, I hate this.” I straighten and wash my hands, then pull on a new pair of gloves.

I don’t get disturbed for the rest of the day. I’m not even approached when I creep into the break room for my lunch or the necessary double-strength afternoon coffees.

By the time I leave work, I’m a zombie. One who quickly rechecks my dad’s fridge to make sure he’s got enough food before being swatted out of his apartment. I drive home with the windows down in the hopes the winter air will keep me awake.

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