Page 46 of SKIN

I deposited the shirt back into the box, shoving the crumbled paper and rolled-up bow on top of it before slamming the lid shut and pushing it all aside. Deeming it tomorrow’s problem. Today I had work to do. Work that didn’t include bullshit chat messages or creepy black boxes. Though whoever it was, they could keep the coffee coming.

I raised my cup in mock cheers at the thought before setting it next to my mouse pad again.

I slept like shit and that hyper-realistic sex dream left me on edge. In more ways than one. I had all the aches and exhaustion of being thoroughly fucked all night long with none of the benefits of an orgasm. It seemed the men in my fantasies were just as useless as the men in my real life.

It really was a shame I didn’t bat for the other team. Would have made things so much easier if I could avoid the opposite sex altogether.

The repetitive rapping of knuckles against my divider wall had me simultaneously looking up from my screen and groaning in my seat. It wasn’t even seven in the morning yet and the office nonsense was already in full swing, or so it seemed.

“Morning, Emmy,” Elliot hummed while I pivoted in my chair to glare at him from over one shoulder. He was standing uncomfortably close, his hands tucked into his pockets and his posture too relaxed for a man well on his way to getting slapped. He leaned forward, not bothering to hide the fact he was snooping. “Whatcha got there? Is it your birthday or something?” He tugged a palm free from his pants and gestured at the box.

“Something,” I muttered under my breath, quickly deciding to grab my discarded gift and shove it against Elliot’s chest. “You know what? Why don’t you take it? I think it would look much better on you anyway.” I spun my chair all the way around and crossed my arms. My legs following suit as my lips curled into a smirk.

Elliot stared at me for a moment, clearly not knowing what to do with the items stuffed in his hands, before breaking out of his daze and dropping everything into the bin beside my desk. “No thanks. I don’t do sloppy seconds,” he grunted, his mouth twisted into an almost snarl.

Good. I didn’t know what exactly put a damper on his mood or took the skip out of his step. But I was fucking grateful for it.

Without another word, Elliot raked an aggravated hand through his hair and stalked off. Grumbling to himself instead of at me for once.

57

EMILY

The following week, another box appeared. This time with a pair of men’s slacks neatly folded inside it. Not long after that, a man’s watch. But it wasn’t until the last package arrived on my doorstep with a wallet wrapped up in black tissue paper that everything finally sank in. And sent a fresh wave of panic surging through my veins.

The television was playing in the living room, white noise to help mitigate the suffocating silence that seemed to always surround me. The news anchor’s voice carried into the kitchen as I set the small iridescent box on the table and started shifting through the contents of the wallet. Nothing out of the ordinary, besides the unconventional packaging. A few credit cards, a gym membership, and an ID that belonged to…

“A man’s naked body was discovered by hikers last week, the remains mutilated and burned before they were dumped in a remote location just outside the city. After extensive testing conducted by the county’s medical examiner’s office, the victim has been identified as a Mr. Grant Nielson from…”

My head snapped up to the screen, while the rest of the woman’s words landed on deaf ears the moment she repeated the name that was staring back at me from the little plastic card still clutched in my now trembling hands.

I knew what I should do. The right thing to do. What any emotionally stable individual would have done under similar circumstances. Left everything where it was and immediately reached out to the proper authorities. And definitely not do whatever they could to contaminate a potential crime scene.

Instead, I tugged on a pair of rubber gloves I used to scrub the dishes. Wiped my prints off the cards in the wallet and tossed any piece of evidence that could have possibly linked me to Grant into an industrial-size trash bag. Including the freshly laundered lingerie and bedsheets. I wasn’t a criminal, but for some reason, I had no problem thinking like one.

Then I dropped the bag into the trunk of my car, glancing over my shoulder before slamming it closed. I didn’t know where I was going but I would figure it out when I got there. I was on autopilot, acting without much thinking as I jumped into the driver’s seat. Backed out of the spot and turned on to the main road. Every stop light and street sign a blur as I stared through the windscreen without seeing much of anything at all. Just streaks of color and flashes of movement.

A short ride later, I was pulling up to the large iron gates that welcomed you to Prescott Manor—it was the one thing Marisela couldn’t tack her name on. The estate was owned by Tate’s family, passed down from generation to generation with no wiggle room in the language of the deed. Something I learned after extensive legal research I was forced to sift through when one of the man’s many mistresses tried to claim she was pregnant with his rightful heir.

Marisela and Tate didn’t have any children together, which was more of a blessing than anything if you asked me. Even if it made her stake in his holdings weak at best.

For as long as my former boss’s body was missing, his wife was permitted to reside on the property. But once a trace of him was found, she’d be out on her ass and everything would be turned over to the only remaining Prescott. Tate’s half-brother, born out of wedlock and never given the privileges that came with the paternal blood that ran through the bastard’s veins.

I couldn’t tell you what led me to Marisela’s doorstep. I was her employee, not her friend. But something in my gut told me she would understand. Maybe even help me. At the very least, provide some guidance. She knew better than anyone else that it didn’t matter if you were guilty or not. It only mattered what it looked like. And right now, it looked like I had a dead man’s belongings shoved inside the trash bag currently clutched in my hands.

Before I could knock, the large ornate door was swinging inward and I was being escorted into the parlor room by Marisela’s butler. I offered the man a tight smile and he dismissed himself, after assuring me Ms. Cruz would be with me shortly.

There was a tray of sweets already set out on the sideboard, a few fancy cups, and a carafe of fresh coffee from the smell of it. But I didn’t have the stomach to eat, while caffeine would only serve to heighten the pounding in my chest.

If the electric chair didn’t kill me, a heart attack just might.

I was too stunted—perhaps still in shock—to realize how much time had passed before I heard the familiar clicking of heels travel down the grand staircase. Clack against the tile flooring of the foyer and pause at the threshold to the parlor. I pushed up from the plush sofa as soon as I felt Marisela’s glare boring through the side of my head. And took a tentative step forward.

She lifted a palm to stop me. “First thing’s first, nena. Did you do it?”

58

EMILY

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