Page 25 of Only for Him
The pause is so long I think he hung up. But then he replies in that deep, silky voice. “You, little viper.”
The line goes dead and no matter how much my senses try to tell me I’m alone, I know better now.
I don’t think I’ll be alone again for a long, long time.
9
GISELLE
My hands squeezearound a takeaway cup. It’s my fourth coffee of the day. Russo’s hands are at ten and two on the wheel, just like the academy still teaches. Like anyone’s checking.
He’s been quiet since he picked me up. Not the dangerous kind of quiet. Just concerned with a splash ofI told you so.
He glances over, squinting. “You sleep at all?”
“Just couldn’t get comfortable,” I say, lying and telling the truth at the same time.
“I could still pull you off this one,” he says, not buying it. “You want me to call it in?”
“No,” I say, too fast. “I need to see it.”
He nods once.
“We’re here,” he says, and kills the engine.
The house is two blocks off the boardwalk. The paint peels in skin-like strips from the porch. There are three patrol carsalready clogging the curb, their red-blue strobes reflecting off the windows.
Russo beats me to the threshold, flashes his badge. The officer on the door steps aside, eyes wide and unblinking. I catch him sneaking a glance at my ass as I walk in.
I look back, just long enough to say with my face:Don’t.
I have more reason to think that, now. Not that I’d ever tolerate a handsy cop, but I wouldn’t wish Ivan’s fate on him.
The foyer is rotten, the floor spongy underfoot. I follow Russo through a hall so narrow I have to walk sideways, then down into the basement, a cold slab of stained concrete.
At the center is Ivan Tupolev.
Or… what’s left of him.
He’s laid out like a martyr, wrists cuffed in front, legs splayed at obscene angles. The head is tilted back, mouth open in a rictus.
There’s a rose between his lips, two more coming out of his ears. His hands are gone, and ten roses—one for each finger—are stuffed in their place. But most disturbing are the roses planted in his belly through the knife wounds.
Dozens of them.
They’re arranged like the world’s most grotesque boutique.
And on Ivan’s chest:To Detective Cantiano.
He dared to touch you. My heart speeds up and I tell myself it’s from disgust.
I remember how mad I was the night before, after Ivan slapped my ass and sent me scurrying down the street. The rage had wound me up to a knife-sharp point.
Seeing him this way sends relief washing through my body. My temples release from the vice grip I wake up with each morning, my hands unclench, my tongue unsticks from the roof of my mouth.
I can breathe again, so I do.
“You want to explain yourself?” Russo turns to me.
