Page 22 of Devil's Tulip

And the cameras? Yeah, I don’t have access. My prints aren’t authorized.

I tap on the microphone option, feeling a little silly as I say, “Uh, hi, Synthia.”

There’s a beep. Then, “Hello, I’m Michael’s virtual assistant. I’m here to make navigating the house easy. How may I assist you?”

I smile but press cancel, because I don’t really need any assistance right now. Wiping my hand down my shirt, I step back and round the stairs, glancing up at the winding staircase. I’ll explore that later. First, I want to check out the rest of the ground floor.

I wander to the other side of the stairs to the only door there, but it’s just a coat closet filled with neatly hung jackets. Boring. Moving on. I shut the door and head back to the living room, which is one huge, sprawling space with an L-shaped sofa smack in the middle, facing a large flat-screen TV and an electric fireplace.

As I get closer, the door leading into the area slides open on its own, and I can’t help but smile. Fancy.

I brush my fingers along the back of the couch as I pass it to the dining area on the other side, where a dark oak table sits near the tall glass windows, surrounded by soft gray chairs that are ridiculously cozy. Beneath them, a thick, plush rug covers the space, separating it from the living room.

I grab my mug from the table and drain the last of my water, then head towards a glass door that, from the looks of it, leads to the kitchen. It slides open smoothly, and as I step inside, the wall lights flick on, illuminating the airy space.

The countertops are slick marble with a glossy finish, and I can’t help but run my hands over them with pleasure. If I was the type to cook, this might be my dream kitchen.

I rinse my mug out in the sink, then hover for a second before setting it down on the counter. A faint glow catches my eye. I turn to the window, tugging the blinds just enough to peek behind them, and streaks of sunlight bleed through.

I blink. Huh. The sun’s already up? I guess with all the curtains closed, it still feels like the early hours of the morning.

Letting the blinds fall back into place, I poke around the kitchen, not surprised to find the pantry stocked mostly with canned meals. The fridge, though, is another story.

It’s packed. Not with the random, half-used groceries I expected, but with neatly stacked plastic containers filled with frozen takeout.

My brows furrow as I study the labels. Different types of food, all—I snap the door shut before I can overanalyze it. It doesn’t mean anything that they all seem like my favorite foods. Itcan’t.

It’s just a weird coincidence that the meal I had earlier also tasted like something straight out of Bellevue Bistro…

Right?

A prickle creeps up my spine, but I shake it off and quickly leave the kitchen. I don’t care how the food got here or where it came from. Nope. Not at all. I make my way to the other side of the living room, drawn to a closed door I’m eager to check out.

The moment I step inside, I gasp.

Towering shelves stretch from wall to wall, stacked with thick books.A home library.

The door clicks shut behind me as I walk in, and the sweet scent of books, mixed with something faintly Michael, surrounds me, filling me with bliss. My lips curl into a delighted grin as I twirl dramatically through the open space, careful not to stumble over the sofas and tables arranged strategically around the room.

This is the first place in the house that actually carries his scent, no matter how faint. Which means he must spend real time here.

That thought catches me off guard.

Maybe it's ignorant or prejudiced, but the handsome Michael with his tattoos and piercings didn’t exactly strike me as much of a reader.

I approach the first shelf, scanning the titles on the spines. My grin vanishes.

Oh,hell no.

I move to the next shelf. Then the next. And the next. By the time I’ve circled the whole library, my mouth is hanging open. The books? Pretty muchall the same.

History Books. Self-help. Language learning guides—at least fifty different languages. Textbooks on topics like agriculture, physics, machine learning, and a bunch of technical mumbo-jumbo I don’t even want to attempt to decipher.

But one thing is painfully clear.

Not. A. Single. Fiction. Book.

What kind of psychopath builds a personal library without a single novel?

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