Page 66 of House Rules
Bingo.
A notepad with the Titan Wynn logo sits just out of view, right where she thought no one would bother to look.
Neat, careful handwriting. A list of names and dates. They look like former employees, with a few notes scribbled in the margins.
Not sure if no call, no show or dead.
Dead?
What the fuck is she doing?
One girl—Rachel—has her name circled. Twice. Next to it:found in the trunk of her car. Why was she found when others weren’t? In the ocean, maybe?
At the top of the page, she’s scrawledTitans??I huff out a laugh. Like we’re the fucking mob.
I stare at it for a long beat, then force myself to slide it back into place, exactly how I found it—though my fingers itch to tear it to shreds.
Or use it to spank some sense into her.
Seriously—does she really think we killed someone?
We haven’t killed anyone. Yeah, we’re dicks. We play games, push buttons, bend rules until they scream.
But murder? That’s not our brand.
According to her list, only one girl actually turned up dead. And that’s easy to reconcile.
It’s always the boyfriend. Or the ex. Or the one who wanted more than a one-night stand and got burned.
I rub a fist over my chest, soothing the dull ache of irony there.I should know.
There’s even a note next to Rachel’s name saying she hooked up with Maverick. Which juststrengthensthe jealous ex theory. Anyone would be jealous of Mav.
As for the rest? They probably just got sick ofworking for my father and walked. No big mystery there. No conspiracy.
I can’t say I blame them, either. I’ve been sick of him for a long fucking time.
I shake my head, disgust curling low in my gut.
She really thinks that if girls were going missing and bodies were washing up somewhere, therewouldn’tbe a full-scale FBI investigation? That we wouldn’t already know?
Please.
If that were happening, my father would’ve warned us himself—just to cover his own ass.
I leaveher room and head for the side patio—one of the quiet ones off the east side of the penthouse—where the wind from the river cuts the summer heat just enough to breathe. My pulse still thuds beneath my skin, tight and angry.
She thinks we’re killers.
The idea won’t stop chewing at the edges of my brain. Not because it’s true—but because shebelieved it. Believes it. Enough to keep a fucking notebook tucked behind a ceiling tile, with names and dates and question marks like she’s auditioning forDateline.
I shove the door open and head for the patio table, reaching under it to grab the cigar box I stashed there months ago. I clip the end of the Cuban and light it with a flick of my wrist. Thick, sweet smoke rolls over my tongue.
It tastes wrong tonight.
I don’t know if it’s her, or me. Probably both.
“You can stop lurking now,” I mutter without turning around. “It’s creepy as shit. Sit down and have a cigar like a normal sociopath.”
