Page 25 of Price of Angels

It hit him then, the absurdity of this moment. Her cheerful tone as she made him coffee…so she could make a formal request that he murder three men for her. As far as taking out a hit went, this was beyond abnormal.

“Fine,” he said, hands going in his jacket pockets.

“You can sit down.” She pressed a button and the maker came on with a hiss. “I’ll be right back.” She went through the sliding door, easing it shut behind her.

Alone, he took a turn around the large, open space. Two matching tables flanked the peach-colored sofa. On one was a tidy stack of magazines:People,Time,Cosmo,Redbook,Entertainment Weekly,Southern Living, andShape. Some were this month’s issue, but some were a few months’ earlier, like theRedbook, the one with the promise of teaching sex secrets that would drive men wild on the cover.

On the other table were books: a stack ofNew York Timesbestsellers, all released within the last two months, half of them on Oprah’s booklist. They looked like secondhand copies, the hardback edges downturned and browned with use.

None of the books nor the magazines had been available for sale before August.

Five issues ofTV Guidelay across the coffee table: August, September, October, November, December.

She’d moved into this loft at the end of August – that was the first time he’d seen her at Bell Bar. But none of her print media evidenced a life before that.

He wandered toward the bed. Tidily made up with old quilts and white pillows. The top drawer of the nightstand was slightly ajar, and the lamp above didn’t quite reach inside the gap of dark space.

Michael checked over his shoulder that she was still in the bathroom, then pulled the drawer open a fraction.

Inside was a narrow book bound in plain brown leather. He fingered the cover aside, and saw the lined paper within, with the slanted, steady handwriting filling up the pages. Not a book, but a journal of some sort.

He heard the door sliding back at the bathroom and shut the drawer with a fast, silent movement, turning to face her.

And there was yet another surprise.

Michael expected the sweats and slippers of the night before, that she’d been getting into something warm and comfortable. Instead, Holly walked toward him in skintight denim miniskirt that hit across the tops of her shapely thighs, and a strappy little black shirt that showed the lace edging of the red bra beneath it. She’d brushed her hair out, and it shone, brilliant and chocolate-brown down her shoulders and back. Her lipstick was blood-colored, the same color as the toenail polish on her bare feet.

“Coffee should be done,” she said, going straight to the kitchen without glancing at him.

Michael approached her slowly, moving around the couch toward the counter with deliberate steps, so as not to startle her. She was a dream to look at – the lush curves of breasts and hips, the creamy skin, the way her waist was corset-small – but her attitude was that of a bird who’d gotten indoors, trapped and panicked.

He watched her pull down two mugs and pour the steaming black coffee into them. They were mismatched, one white, and one yellow.

“Cream?” she asked.

“Black’s fine.”

She nodded, and stirred two big spoonfuls of sugar into the yellow one, hers, before she turned to him. Her hand trembled as she passed the white mug into his grip. And her eyes, when they finally came up to his face, were saucer-wide and stricken.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the hot mug by the handle. “What the hell are you wearing?”

She closed her eyes, face pained. “It…has to do with paying you.” Her eyes opened again, studded deep with anguish, though her voice was even. “Let’s sit down and talk about the job first. Okay?”

He nodded, and followed her to the sitting area. When she sat down on the couch, he took the small plaid recliner, on purpose, to give her some space.

She looked at him and nodded, a silent thank you. She sipped her coffee, took a deep breath, and said, “So I want you to kill three people,” like she was commenting on the weather. “I guess I should tell you who they are.”

“That’d be helpful,” he said.

Another sip, and she said, “I escaped at the beginning of August. I assumed they came after me, just because I was paranoid, but now I know, because I saw two of them yesterday, at Bell Bar.”

She wrapped both hands around her mug, as if she were drawing its warmth into her curled, chilled body, and she watched him, waiting for his questions.

The wordescapedcaught his attention, but he wasn’t going to ask about that. Her past had no bearing on this conversation, or his decision.

He studied the wide leather cuffs on her wrists, and then glanced at her face, the soft trembling of her lower lip. She had a very pretty mouth. “Were they looking for you?”

“They were talking to two of your friends, actually.”

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