Page 3 of Ten

I nearly screamed. With the phone in one hand, I pressed against the door with the other in a desperate attempt to keep it closed. “No one, baby. I’m feeling a little sick.”

“Bullshit!” he snarled and thumped the door with his fist. “I know you’re talking to someone in there. Do you have a phone? What did I tell you about those goddamn phones?”

“I don’t have a phone.” My voice shook, and I could hear the dispatcher trying to coach me. “I know I’m not allowed to have one, not after I called Uncle Nicky.”

Kiki rattled the door handle, and when it didn’t open, he kicked the door. “What did I say about locked doors?”

“No locked doors in your house,” I repeated, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I’m sorry. I just...I wanted some privacy. I...my stomach hurts real bad.”

“Open. The. Door. Now.”

I didn’t. For the first time in years, I refused to follow his order. “No.”

“What did you say? Nisha! Open this goddamned door now!” He kicked and banged on the door, and I could see the ratty old hinges ready to give at any moment. “Open the door!”

“No!” I let the phone drop to the floor and put both hands against the door. “I’m not opening this door! I’m not letting you hurt me anymore!”

In the distance, police sirens grew louder. I was so close to escaping. So close.

“Did you call the police?” He slammed both hands against the door and unleashed a tirade of fuck and bitch and every other terrible, degrading thing he could think of at me. “After you made me teach you a lesson? After you made me hurt you? Because you won’t follow the rules? Because you want to act like a whore smiling and shaking your ass at every man on this street?” He punched the door, and the cheap wood splintered. “I swear to God, Nisha, when they get here, you better tell them the truth.”

“I will,” I promised, my voice shaking and my hands trembling. “I’m going to tell them everything, Kiki. I’m going to tell them to look in the shed. I’m going to tell them to look at the security systems you serviced. I’m going to tell them you killed those girls.”

“What did you say?” Kiki hissed through the door. It was that demon voice of his, the one that told me the worst pain of my life was coming my way. I wasn’t deeply religious, but there were moments when I truly believed the Devil lived inside Kiki.

I couldn’t back down now. I don’t know where that flare of bravery—or stupidity—came from, but I wanted him to know that Iknew.

“I said I know you’ve been picking up prostitutes. I know you did it back in Houston, and you’re doing it here, too. Except now, you don’t have anyone keeping you in line, and you’re killing these girls. You cut off their—.”

A second too late, I heard the metallicthunkandclankof a shotgun being racked. It was a sound I had heard dozens of times. Kiki liked to scare me with his sawed-off Mossberg when I stepped out of line, like the night he found out I had called Uncle Nicky and asked for a bus ticket back home to Houston.

I stumbled backward in an attempt to get out of the way, but I was too slow. There was no escaping the blast that tore through the cheap door—and right into me.

Chapter One

“Hey,Nisha,canIshow you a photo of my monstera?” Billie Garcia, our salon’s receptionist, dropped into the open seat at the round table in the employee lounge. “Oh! Is that gumbo?”

“It is.” I held up my spoon like a sword and playfully stabbed it in Billie’s direction. “And, no, I’m not sharing!”

“Selfish much?” Billie frowned and reached for her batteredMy Little Ponylunchbox. “I guess I’ll just eat whatever slop my sister made.”

I rolled my eyes at Billie’s drama llama act. “Your sister is an executive chef for the most popular vegan restaurant in town!”

“Yeah, like I said,” Billie reiterated with an aggrieved huff. She opened the lid on the neatly packed container of food and carelessly discarded the sweet little hot pink sticky note with a message from her sister. “See! Can you imagine serving this to someone you supposedly love?”

I wasn’t a big fan of overly complicated vegan food filled with strange meat substitutes, but this dish was simple and looked incredible. “Was it that? Chickpeas?”

“Chickpea tagine with North African spices served over mint and dill infused couscous with coriander garnish,” Billie described in a haughty voice.

I shrugged. “I’d eat it.”

“I’m happy to trade.”

I pulled my last serving of Uncle Nicky’s gumbo closer. “Pass.”

Billie pouted and stabbed her fork into a meal that had obviously been cooked with love. She put the first bite in her mouth and grimaced. After swallowing, she said, “Well, it’s not the worst thing she’s ever cooked for me.”

“You know, for someone who lives rent-free in her sister’s house, taking up space that her sister and brother-in-law would probably love to dedicate to their own hobbies or even a baby, you sure do complain a lot.”

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