Page 64 of Santa Daddy
My stomach lurched.
So this is where he works. Not the office. Not the pretty glass box.
Here.
Protecting me, my ass.
He was protecting his secrets. His process. His pretty empire’s ugly plumbing.
My eyes snagged on something on the far wall.
Photos. Four of them, clipped to a wire.
They weren’t family pictures. No smiling kids. No vacations.
Men. Different ages, different faces, all looking at the camera like they’d been told to. Expressions ranged from bored tofurious to scared. Under each one, neat handwritten notes in sharp Cyrillic.
Targets. Or trophies. Or warnings to himself.
My throat went dry.
One of the men looked familiar. I couldn’t place him. Not from the mall. Not from the bus. From a flash behind my eyelids when I tried to sleep.
The alley. The man he’d shot. The way his blood had spread over the snow.
I stepped closer, squinting.
A tiny red light blinked in the ceiling.
Camera.
Hidden. Aimed not at the door.
At the photos.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
This wasn’t just a room. This was a ritual.
My chest tightened. The world tunneled in around the lit surfaces and the silver gleam of metal and the little blinking eye.
Then I heard it.
Far away but distinct.
The elevator.
Soft chime. Shift in the building. The particular sound of the private lift coming home.
Panic punched through my curiosity like a fist.
Shit.
I darted back to the door, fingers clumsy on the lock. The keypad beeped as I jabbed at it, trying to remember which buttons I’d hit when I opened it. The light stubbornly stayed green.
The elevator hum grew louder. Closer.
You’re not getting caught in here. You are not getting caught in his murder spa.
