Page 33 of Toxic Temptation
“Then what’s your plan?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
“I think this goes deeper than Jeremy and Shana,” I say cautiously. “There’s something else happening here. Something bigger.”
“What do you mean?”
Keres.The name burns on my tongue, but I can’t say it out loud. Not yet. Not until I understand what it means.
“Nothing. I don’t even know. I’ve had a long day and I’m exhausted. But, hey, I’m almost home. I’ll call you later?”
“Always.”
I park outside my building, a modest complex that’s seen better decades. The elevator groans its way to the third floor, and my feet feel like lead as I walk down the hallway to 402.
I slide my key into the lock, push open the door—and freeze.
Because the living room window is open. I never, ever leave it open when I leave for work.
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the night air flowing through my apartment.
I’m not alone.
Someone is here.
Someone is waiting for me.
12
KOVAN
“Hello, Francis.”
The coat he’s holding slips from the man’s fingers and hits the marble floor of his foyer with a soft thud. Judge Francis Delgado turns slowly, and I watch the blood drain from his face as he recognizes me standing in the shadows of his staircase.
“Christ, Kovan!” he hisses. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. How did you?—”
“I let myself in.”
His eyes dart toward the top of the stairs, probably wondering if his wife heard the commotion. If she’s reaching for the phone to call 911.
“Leticia’s asleep,” I tell him, pushing off from where I’ve been leaning against the banister. “The dogs, too. They remember me, by the way. Still love their Uncle Kovan.”
Francis mutters something under his breath and bends to retrieve his coat. His hands shake as he straightens. “You could have called. Made an appointment.”
“This couldn’t wait.”
He sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world, then gestures toward his living room. I follow him through the arched doorway into a space that actually feels lived-in, unlike the rest of his gaudy, pristine house. Oversized sofas that look like you could sink into them and never surface. Dog toys scattered across hardwood floors. Family photos covering every inch of the mantel.
My eyes find the pictures of his son, Bradley. Graduation photos. Award ceremonies. The kid’s whole life documented in glossy frames, including an empty spot that’s clearly waiting for his Harvard Law School graduation portrait.
“Take a seat,” Francis says, lowering himself into his favorite armchair.
Instead, I walk to the mantel and pick up one of Bradley’s photos. The kid’s got his father’s nonexistent chin but his mother’s intelligent eyes.
“How’s Bradley doing?”
“Top of his class.” Pride creeps into Francis’s voice despite his obvious discomfort. “Already working part-time at Morrison & Associates.”
