Page 68 of Dolls & Daggers
“Working late. I’m gonna meet up with her.”
I follow his unwavering gaze to see Bunny heading to the bathroom. Hunter is off his stool and walking away without so much as a goodbye, giving me the perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
Go get her, man. I’m going after my girl, too.
Rich people can be so fuckingdumb sometimes.
Aside from his proclivity for fucking women who look younger than they are while scouting his next victim, Marcus Westfield doesn’t ask for a shred of proof about who I am. No collateral, no NDA, no precaution ensuring I’ll keep his identity a secret.
Nothing.
Most men of his caliber—scummy, high-ranking Wall Street types—have protocols. NDAs, security measures, exit strategies. Not Marcus. He thinks his remote farmhouse on the New York–Pennsylvania border, miles from the nearest neighbor, is enough to ensure discretion.
It’s where he takes his victims. It's fitting that it’s where he’ll meet his bloody end.
Marcus is a medium kill, but I have a lot of pent-up rage to burn.
Winding down the long gravel driveway, the crunch beneath the tires of my rented white sedan is swallowed by the storm rolling in. It’s an older-model Chevy with no GPS, but I still slapped on a fake license plate and prayed to whoever was listening that I wouldn’t get pulled over.
Wren was right to be worried. Generally, I wouldn’t agree to meet somewhere so isolated. But this is precisely why I work alone. Even Bunny and I don’t usually do jobs together. Sure, we help clean up the mess, but it’s too much trouble to worry about another body in the mix. People are unpredictable.
And my songbird is too sweet to get tangled in this chaos.
The farmhouse’s distant glow grows closer, blurred by the rain that now pours in heavy sheets. The windshield wipers struggle to keep up as I reach for my purse, fishing out my pack of Black and Milds and the Zippo I keep next to them. My thumb glides over a raised smooth surface on the lighter, and my heart stops. I slow the car as I hit the map light to inspect it.
Motherfuc—I abruptly cut off my internal curse, vowing never to use that word again. But goddammit, Wren. This must be how he’s tracking me. That smart-ass knew I wouldn’t find it because I promised him I’dquit smoking. And I have—mostly. A frustrated sound escapes my throat as I toss the pack and lighter back into my bag.
A heavy sense of dread settles in my lungs. What if he doesn’t listen? What if he follows me again?
This is a bad idea, Turtle Dove.His voice rings through my head, clear as if he were beside me.
I inhale sharply and press my foot to the gas. Another day that Marcus gets to live is another child at risk of becoming his next victim.
The farmhouse looks perfectly normal—cream-colored with a gray shingle roof, a detached three-car garage, and carefully manicured landscaping, the kind that suggests he hires someone to maintain it when he’s not here.
It’s bigger than what a single bachelor needs, but my research shows he likes to throw parties for his finance bros.
This house has seen some shit.
Tonight, that shit will look tame compared to what I’m about to do to him.
Pushing thoughts of Wren from my mind, I collect my duffel, open the umbrella I always keep in my purse, and make the short walk to the door. Marcus greets me with a glass of red wine and a charming smile.
He has the kind of face that inspires trust at firstglance—freshly shaven, sharp features, a wolf in finance shark clothing. In his tailored suits, he’s the man who can double your investment while making himself even richer. Dressed down in joggers and a white tee, he looks like he could be the hot basketball coach at a local high school.
Which is probably exactly how he hooks the teenage girls he likes to fuck.
“Wow. You are beautiful.” His eyes roam my body, lingering. He shuts the door behind me and motions to an umbrella stand in the corner.
Even though I have a costume to change into, I took my time selecting the perfect summer dress to highlight my curves. My makeup is carefully done to make me look younger. The whole package is designed to put him at ease, to make him think I’m just a tiny slip of a woman, unable to defend myself when his instincts kick in and he starts playing out his rape fantasy. He’s smart to hire sex workers between his victims so he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself. Unfortunately for them, no one cares if they go missing.
Unfortunately for him, he’s caught the attention of the wrong woman.
“Thank you,” I reply, keeping my tone light and breathy to sell the innocent act. It’s what he requested, after all. And I’m nothing if not a professional.
“Listen,” he says, handing me the wine with an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry to have to do this, but I have to take a quick Zoom call for work. Shouldn’t be more than half an hour. Make yourself comfortable. There’s charcuterie if you’re hungry. Help yourself to anything.”
Charmingandconsiderate. He’s trying to put me at ease, too. Having researched him, I know not to drink the wine. The food is probably safe, but the alcohol? Almost certainly drugged.
