Page 56 of A Taste like Sin
I hear someone call my name as I race to the elevator and ride it to the lower floor, but I can’t stop.
Panting, I tear onto the street and flag down the first cab I can, taking it straight to the Lariat.
“Hey!” the driver snaps as I shove the door open and climb out without bothering to hear the fare.
“You owe me, lady!”
But he’ll just have to get in line.
My once familiar, if cold home is a labyrinth now. A few nights away have warped the gilded
hallways, transforming luxury into a foreboding maze. My front door is the portal to a nightmare
world and every nerve urges me to run as I open the door and step inside.
On the surface, it looks as I left it last. No avalanche of flowers. No lurking Damien Villa.
No final, haunting warning from Simon.
Though perhaps he decided to deliver it in person?
A shadow flickers on the fringes of my entryway—near the kitchen. A stranger. A man. Panic
paralyzes me. It takes a heart-stopping second before I notice the uniform the intruder is wearing, the
navy blue of a police officer.
“Can I help you?” I blurt in a rush.
“Ms. Thorne,” he says, stepping from behind my counters, his hands elevated. “Sorry to bother you,
but Chief Harrison wanted me to secure—”
“Secure?” I croak. “Just because my father’s in the hospital, that doesn’t mean you get to do his
bidding. Not without a warrant or whatever it is you need.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Ma’am, I was sent by the chief. For your safety. Apparently, there’s an
investigation into—”
“I’m sorry.” My chest heaves as those dangerous keywords land on the overwhelming pile on my
psyche like drops of gasoline. “Just please g-get out!” I point a trembling finger toward the door.
“Now! Get out!”
“Of course.” The man lurches past me and respectfully inclines his head. “Sorry to startle you.”
The full extent of just how badly he has doesn’t sink in until the door finally closes after him. My
knees tremble, knocking together. I have to stagger forward and brace my hands over the counter just
to stay upright. My poor, abandoned pot of oleander wilts nearby: a few naked stalks amid a swath of
fallen petals.
I brush my finger along the rim of the tiny pot, remembering its original intent: to terrify me. One
