Page 93 of Remy

I buy dinner along the way, too focused on getting my hands back on my laptop to type in another online search about Remy to cook myself a proper meal. I eat the shrimp pad Thai from the takeout box as I scan the web, finding numerous photos of him at red-carpet fashion events where beautiful women cling to his arm, their besotted eyes fixated on his handsome face while he grins at the cameras.

How did he go from fashion to felonies? Mohair to murder?

I shower and contemplate going to bed, but instead drag my feet back to the sofa for more online stalking. Sleep claims me early enough, the brutal exhaustion throwing me into vivid dreams of warm, calloused hands sliding along the inside of my trembling legs. I’m clenching my thighs, whimpering for more when my head lulls forward, waking me abruptly.

I groan with the whiplash as my laptop teeters on the cushion then hits the floor, thudding on impact.

I close my eyes and scrub a hand down my face, but Remy’s right there, staring back at me from every corner of my mind.

My heartbeat increases from its already quickened pace. The calloused fingers of unease claw at my stomach.

He could be at the funeral home. Could be creating another twenty-thousand-dollar paycheck for my father.

“Goddamnit.” I shove to my feet and pace.

This panic isn’t healthy. The constant fixation is going to produce an ulcer at best, and I don’t want to contemplate the worst-case scenario. But I can’t make the mindless churn stop.

A six-by-four prison cell isn’t a place I aspire to live. Orange jumpsuits and being someone’s bitch? Nope. No, thank you.

I can’t leave my future in the hands of a man I barely know. A criminal I can’t trust.

I stride for the kitchen counter, grab my keys, cell, and coat again, then return to my viewing point down the darkened street of the funeral home.

It becomes a vicious cycle—stalk the family business at night, pester my dad for health updates before work, ignore my friends during the day.

Does Remy know he has to check for pacemakers or radioactive implants in the people he kills? What happens if he blows up the retort and in the process blows his cover with the resulting explosion?

Or worse, his men could betray him. They could already be talking to the Feds without him knowing.

The paranoia builds. So do the bags under my eyes.

I work on autopilot while at the funeral home, the do-not-disturb sign now a permanent fixture on my door as I count down the hours until I can resume internet stalking.

I learn that Remy has been buying up local businesses like he’s a teenage girl indulging in a shopping spree with Daddy’s credit card. The most recent purchase was a popular nightclub he aptly renamed Smoke & Mirrors.

It isn’t until Wednesday morning that Ivy crosses my path in the break room and gives me a lackluster smile coupled with a subdued greeting. Her low vibe gives me pause until I remember why I’ve endured days of radio silence.

“Hey.” I grab my full coffee mug and walk for the hall. “Will this week never end? I’m so far behind schedule I can barely breathe.”

The lie heats my cheeks, but I continue walking away from her in an effort to hide the fraudulence.

If anything I’m well ahead of schedule. Coming in a little earlier to check on Dad and withdraw into the mortuary before Ivy and Allison arrive has meant more time at the prep table.

“I bet.” Her reply is solemn. “But you know where to find me when you’re ready to talk.”

I force myself to maintain my stride. She knows something’s wrong. Of course she does. Nothing gets past Ivy.

“If only I had something great to talk about,” I say over my shoulder. “Unfortunately there’s nothing but work, work, work.”

She doesn’t call me on my bullshit.

Nobody does. All week.

Maybe Dad came up with a cover story to keep them at bay. Or they’re distracted by the new suave employee. Either way, Friday arrives without me having to explain why I’ve been acting all kinds of dismissive. Problem is, sleep deprivation has me in a chokehold, my energy levels are nonexistent, and my cortisol is so messed up I’m on a constant anxiety spin cycle.

There’s no maintaining the craziness.

I can’t keep staking out the funeral home every night and acting like a hibernating bear all day. Falling asleep mid-embalm on Thursday was bad enough.

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