Page 143 of Sixth Sin

Glancing over my shoulder, I toss it to him, watching as it lands by his feet. “You know what’s in there. You’ve always known it.”

“Alexandra…”

Everything is finished now, and the Romanov family is finally at peace. Tilting my chin, I catch Angel’s eye and smile. She understands. Twins always do. I hold out my hand, and she takes it, entwining our fingers together.

Our story is over.

It began with death, and that’s how it ends.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

JADE

One Year Later

“Coming up on your right, you’ll see the infamous Romanov mansion, the tragic site of six homicides that rocked Bel Air sixteen years ago.”

I press my falling sunglasses back onto my face and lean forward as the tour guide makes a sweeping gesture, and an entire row of sheep to my left eagerly turn their heads. People get off on the sick and macabre—case in point this bus tour.

Of course, my paid seat on the “Infamous Hollywood Murders Tour” doesn’t make me much of a saint.

I follow suit, my gaze locked on the sculptured grounds of the immaculately kept mansion. This is the darker side of Hollywood. The one nobody likes to talk about because it makes their icons too human. Too fallible. Flesh and blood and weakness just like the rest of us.

Then again, I’ve always found beauty where others found shame. I believe pain has a residue. No matter how hard we scrub, it can never be cleaned—only transformed.

I grit my teeth as warm breath fans over my bare shoulder. Inhaling slowly, I try to even out my temper before elbowing her in the throat. I’m not one for close contact, and this woman has invaded it the whole damn tour. Slowly, I tilt my chin over my shoulder and glare at her.

Instead of tossing back a glare of her own, the redhead tucks a wad of bubblegum in her cheek.“Don’t you mean seven homicides?”

Eighteen pairs of eyes swing toward the statuesque tour guide, who stiffens, her brittle smile betraying the barest hint of a twitch. “The seventh has never officially been confirmed.”

“She confessed to killing him,” the redhead snorts, realizing she has a captive audience. “What the hell are they waiting on?”

“A body,” her friend pipes up on the other side of her.

The redhead rolls her eyes and blows another bubble. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

I sit back and watch with fascination. Maybe not so much the incessant chatter as much as the panic playing on the poor tour guide’s face. She’s lost control and has no idea how to corral the herd back inside the pen.

Her hand shakes as she fiddles with the wireless microphone at her mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

I could help her out. It wouldn’t be difficult to toss out a random question and redirect everyone’s attention back to her regurgitated spiel. But I’d be lying if I said my curiosity hasn’t been piqued.

I cock my head toward the redhead. “Wait, what do you mean?”

She raises an eyebrow. “That tabloid owner was murdered a year ago today.”

“By the same killer that murdered the Romanov family?”

She slides a tepid look toward her friend then shifts it back to me. “Depends on who you ask. By the way, I’m Tess, and that’s Isla.” She tips her head toward the exotic-looking woman beside her.

Introductions are a nice gesture, but I didn’t come here for pen pals. “Do you plan to elaborate on that, or was it simply a baiting question?”

Tess is quiet for a minute, and I wonder if my directness offended her. Her gaze wanders toward the estate again. “Alexandra Romanov has blood on her hands.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between us.

“Why do you say that?”

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