Page 74 of Ashes of Saints

“Then, yes.”

I smile wider as the door pings open.

Her penthouse is a far cry from the small apartment she lived in when we first met, and it’s exactly where I need to be.

Aurora will shower, giving a chance to do some snooping.

She tied one of my black shirts over her dress before we left my penthouse. Seeing her in it does something in my chest, like she’s getting under my skin, creating a reaction I’ve never experienced.

Feelings I didn’t know I could.

We share a past she has no memory of—apparently—so unless she’s one hell of an actress, it’s time I started digging, then leave her to grieve her mother.

Whether I’ll tell her what I find, I’m unsure.

The desire to hurt Aurora is fading.

A fact that makes me resentful in some ways but also questions whether I’m as fucked up as I thought.

Probably am.

Aurora’s relationship with her mother is an interesting one. She hasn’t been as brokenhearted by the loss as I assumed she would be. At the funeral, she seemed almost numb. Also drunk. The opposite of what I’ve perceived the tiny green-eyed child would be. The one whisked away from her loving mom.

What have I gotten wrong?

For decades, my hate and resentment have simmered away, assuming a number of things, but the real picture looks quite different.

Smoke and mirrors, perhaps.

“I’m going to shower. Be right back,” Aurora says and disappears down the hall.

Right on track.

“I’ll order breakfast. What do you want?” I call out.

“Eggs. Bacon. More coffee,” she replies, then the door closes.

Tossing back the rest of the coffee, I decide on a second one myself. I didn’t drink all that much last night, but I fucked her for hours, so large servings of both caffeine and protein are required.

After quickly ordering, I wander around the penthouse seeking places Mary-Anne might have hidden information. I figure a pedophile, or sex trafficker, or whatever she was, wouldn’t keep incriminating proof on their coffee table or bookshelf. So, I need to look deeper.

While Aurora is in the shower, I head into the spare rooms and dig through drawers, cupboards, and under the beds.

Bingo. I find a shoe box with a pathetic lock on it. Gripping the sides, I rip it open. Inside there are dozens of printed photos. Flicking through, my chest tightens when I see her face as I knew it decades earlier.

Hurry.

I shove a few in my jacket pocket—it was cool this morning, so I threw on my black bomber jacket over jeans and a T-shirt. Aurora approved. I saw her eyes dilate as they slid down my body—then put the box back on the top shelf of the cupboard where I found it.

I hear a noise which sounds like the shower turning off.

Shit.

I have a couple more minutes. Where would someone who’d run a criminal organization keep things?

A safe maybe?

I move a few paintings as I head back to the living area, looking under them for one, but have no luck.

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