Page 33 of Emerald Vices

I fall silent. “What?”

He drops his arm and steps back, waving me through the door. “If it means that much to you, go to work.”

He says it like he’s doing me a favor. Like I should be grateful he’s letting me leave the house. But I’m not so pissed that I’m going to kick a gift horse in the mouth… no matter how satisfying that would be.

“Right. I’ll, uh… I’ll just… be going then.” I shimmy sideways, staying carefully out of reach as I skirt past him to the driveway.

Andrey stands watch in the doorway as I climb into the car and start down the drive.

For a second, I feel a slight modicum of shame. After all, he is just trying to protect me and the babies.

But the feeling lasts only until he disappears from view.

“Have you heard?”

“I know, it’s just awful!”

I turtle deeper into the collar of my shirt, trying to pretend I can’t hear the whispers floating around the office and, most importantly, that I’m not regretting coming into the office today.

Andrey cannot be right about this, too. I refuse to let that happen.

The crown of Abby’s head passes by my cubicle before her nails click against the laminate paneling of the cubicle across the hall. It’s her calling card—the same way Freddy Krueger laughs as he slices through teenagers’ abdomens, Abby Whitshaw raps her fingernails on the walls right before she comes to annoy the hell out of me.

“I did wonder when he never responded to my texts,” Abby whispers. “It’s not like him…”

How often was she texting Byron? Was he trying to sleep with her, too? Not that he’d really have to try.

“What do you think happened? Do you think it had something to do with her?”

I stare fixedly at my laptop screen, but I can feel the heat of their gazes burning through my cubicle. They’re not making any secret about who the “her” is in this scenario. How the hell did I manage to become the punchline and the suspect all in one year?

Bitterness flares through me as I connect the chaotic last months with the only thing that has changed in my life recently: Andrey.

I rise from my desk slowly, calmly… like someone in need of a stale coffee from the break room and not someone who may or may not have murdered her boss.

Unfortunately, my attempt to draw zero attention to myself is shattered when my Schwarzenegger-sized shadow follows me into the breakroom.

“Are you okay?” Leonty asks, closing the door behind him.

“Keep it open,” I order. “Otherwise, they’ll think we’re fooling around in here.”

Leonty actually blushes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What? I’m not your type?”

His blush only deepens. “You know that’s not?—”

I wave a hand in his face. “I’m only teasing.” I grab a juice pack and slump down into one of the plastic chairs. “I’m guessing you’ve heard the rumors, too?”

“I don’t pay attention.” He places a finger against his temple. “It’s just elevator music in here most of the time.”

I snort. “You’re my bodyguard. Your job—and, knowing Andrey, your life—depend on you paying attention. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

Leonty helps himself to a juice, too. “The rumors don’t concern you, Nat. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Byron is missing!” My voice comes out even shriller than usual. “Everyone thinks I have something to do with it. And honestly, that may be true.”

“It’s not.”

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