Page 94 of Mayhem and Minnie

Her lips twitch.

“So it is blood. Whose?”

“Animal blood,” I lie.

“I see.” She meets my gaze head-on, as if to communicate she knows this is all a lie. “So you like to paint with blood,” she muses. “Was this your big, bad secret?”

“So what if it was?”

“Don’t get so defensive, Marlowe.” She tsks. “I like it. It’s hot.”

Hot?

Is this the same Minnie as before?

She slowly gets up, her eyes never leaving mine. She reaches out with her hand and cups my cheek.

“You shouldn’t hide, Marlowe. I see you. The real you.”

I freeze.

Just how much does she know?

13

Minnie An’yan.

I stare at the computer screen pensively.

Zero hits.

There’s no one with her name on the face of the earth. No birth records, no foster home records as she claimed, and certainly no prison records.

For all intents and purposes, Minnie An’yan doesn’t exist.

Either that or she gave me a fake name. And that begs the question: what is she hiding?

Unable to find anything on the name she’s given me, I decide to try the police database. I log in some of her characteristics and narrow the search down to the surrounding area. If she’s given me a fake name, then she must have something to hide. And the best place to start is with police records.

The program registers my criteria and starts the search. I tap my finger on my desk as I await the results.

Normally, finding out about such a deception would have me raging. I’ve been living with this little heathen for almost two weeks now. Weeks of cohabitating with someone who lied about who they are. That in itself should get me riled up enough to add her on my murder list—again. Especially since she’s barged into my life, I’ve barely done any real work.

All I’ve done is sit in front of my computer and watch the house feed or do impromptu walks through the house to get a glimpse of her, then get flustered when I get caught staring.

Why am I getting fucking flustered? It’s my house. I’m allowed to walk around my house, no?

The mere fact that she’s made a mockery of my well-crafted routine and has reduced my productivity to zero should have me ready to murder her on the spot. Instead, I only find myself more intrigued by her and the secrets she hides.

She’s an enigma. And I’ve never been able to back off from an unsolved puzzle, no matter how difficult it might seem.

Odd, isn’t it?

I’ve gotten so used to getting rid of everything that inconveniences me that it’s absolutely mind-blowing that Minnie not only still lives with me, but that she enjoys a lot of privileges even when she breaks my rigid rules.

Yes, she can clean. And oh, can the girl cook. But other than that, she’s a disaster waiting to occur with her clumsiness.

Just the other day, I was walking through the kitchen—for no other reason than to check up on her cooking, of course, and perhaps find out what her secret to those delicious dishes really is. The little klutz got startled by my presence and cut her finger.

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