Page 10 of Cruel Cravings

More Bodies Found—The Cleaver Death Toll Rises

And the latest?—

Bondage, Whips and Chains—Oh My! The Secret Late-Night Sex Parties Hosted by the Cleaver, Kaden Raskova

I snort back a laugh and then shake my head side to side.

“This isn’t about my sister.” I slide the papers back toward her. “She’s not dead.”

“Ms. Hendrix?—”

“You know what this coffee needs? Coffee cake.” I pop to my feet and dart toward the counter to fuss with the plastic container of pound cake.

Detective Laurent rises to her feet, arms crossed. “When was the last time you were in contact with your sister?”

“I just told you I’m busy, detective.” I pluck the large kitchen knife out of the wooden block resting on the counter. Fingers wrapped around the handle, the blade glints attractively under the kitchen lights. I’m entranced by it for a second as I ask, “Would you like some cake, detective?”

“No… thank you. I’d like to get back to the questions. Did Lyra ever mention anyone by the name of Kaden Raskova to you?”

“That doesn’t sound familiar. Probably because my sister had nothing to do with some guy named Jaden Kaskova.”

“Kaden,” she says. “Kaden Raskova. Did you know any of Lyra’s friends? Anyone you might be able to point me in the direction of? Someone who kept regular contact with her?”

“Nope.”

“What about a young woman named Imani Makune? From what I could find about your sister, they were very close friends.”

“I’mher friend. Her best friend.”

The detective heaves a sigh like she’s frustrated by my answers but can’t admit as much. I keep my back turned to her, my hand shaking as it cuts an uneven slice of cake. It’s no different from the vocal cords quivering in my throat.

I’m hot all over. Irritated.

Mad that mother taught me to be so polite.

You should never be rude to guests in your home. It reflects poorly on no one else but you.

Detective Laurent wanders from the kitchen area to the framed photographs hanging on the wall. Her left brow cocks higher and she directs a probing glance my way.

“Who are they?”

She’s talking about the family of four posed in matching Christmas sweaters.

I grip the knife tighter and hack off another lopsided piece of cake. “Family friends.”

“Hmm.”

The sound isn’t an agreeable hum. It drips with suspicion. With unmistakable deep thought.

Detective Laurent is doing what all cops do—she’s drinking in every moment, every single detail. She’s nosy and rude and has no business showing me newspapers about my sister and some maniac who hosted sex parties.

The radio attached to her hip suddenly goes off, interrupting the tense silence in the apartment.

“Calling in a Code 187 on Vale Street,” comes the fuzzy voice over the radio waves. “Male. Early 40s. Found disposed of in an alleyway dumpster. All officers in the area respond.”

Detective Laurent curses under her breath, dialing down the volume. “This thing never shuts up. A city this big? There’s always something going on somewhere.”

The knife slips out of my hand, clattering onto the counter. I spin around with a broad smile pasted on and my insides twisted into knots. “It sounds like you’re busy. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

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