Page 119 of Shadowed Obsession

“Check for a pulse, Dee,” she says, annoyance in her tone.

“I don’t want to touch him,” I grit, pacing the floor.

“Touch the fucking body and check for a pulse. Now,” she bites out firmly.

“Fine,” I resign, huffing as I wearily approach the body. Blood is pooled around him, and his eyes are still open.

Gross, and all over my favorite fucking rug.

How am I going to get brain matter out of it?

My hands tremble as I press two fingers into his bloodied wrist and wait for a sign of life.

Nothing.

“No pulse. Now will you fucking help me?” I ask, rushing to the bathroom to wash the blood from my hands, fighting the strong urge to gag. “Shit.”

“We have a crew in Austin, and I’m texting them now. They’re fifteen minutes away. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, well no. If you count this dead motherfucker at my feet.”

“Where’s César? Did you two make up, or is he…” she trails off.

“No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t answer the phone so I don’t know where he is.”

“Fuck. I know that feeling. I’m gonna stay on the line with you. Okay?”

“Thank you,” I whisper, taking a seat on the other side of the room.

“I’m going to text you a contact. Name’s Renata or Renny. Call her in the morning. And I know you keep looking at that fucking body. Stop it,” she snaps in her mom voice. “You need to talk to someone. Like I was saying, Renny. Call her.”

I tilt my head in confusion. “Who’s she? And how do you know I’m staring at him?” I ask nervously.

“She’s my therapist. Believe it or not.”

I remain silent as I try to process what she said. Regina goes to therapy?

“Yes, I go to therapy,” she responds as if she can hear my thoughts. “And because I know my cousin. They, uh, shit and piss themselves after. Did you know that?”

“Oh my God, gross. He’s gonna shit on my fucking rug? Giii,” I whine. “How do you get brain matter out of a carpet? You know a guy for that?”

She bursts into laughter. “I do actually. He’s with the crew that’s coming down, but they’re thorough, so you won’t need to ask.”

“And what exactly do you tell her? You lie?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Everything. Shit, she’s in the mob too. Her pops is the Don of the Zippiati Family.”

A mob therapist that you can tell incriminating things to. Interesting.

We take on a comfortable silence as I attempt to hear myself think. I get up and pace again, even checking for a response from César, and there isn’t one.

What if he killed César before he came here for me?

My nausea fights its way up at the thought, but I swallow it down. I hear her taking drags and blowing smoke on the other end. She breaks the silence in a way only she can.

“So, you popped your cherry. Thirty-two years. Took you long enough to get your first blood. Did you throw up already?” she asks, amusement in her tone.

I take a deep breath to will the urge away. “No, but I want to. Did you?”

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