Page 44 of Deadly Business

I’d been dumped before, but the damage Corbin caused was worse than anything I’d felt in my life. Pieces of me would be forever be left on the floor in that Cape Cod. He brought me up and made me feel special, only to tear me down in the worst possible way.

I turned on quiet feet and headed back into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and contemplating what to do next. I hadn’t come this far to let a man with an adorable face take me down, or worse, out. Sometimes life got hard, and it seemed as if there was no way to recover, but that didn’t mean you quit fighting. Those were the moments you shined.

And that time was now for me. In fact, I couldn’t think of a better time than when the man I thought might become my boyfriend tried to sell me for information to a mobster and then offered to kill me for free. Like I wasn’t even the cupcake. I was just the cherry on top of the cupcake. Nobody would miss it if you didn’t add the cherry.

Well, screw that. I was sick and tired of being a cherry nobody noticed. With sound determination, which wouldn’t last long, I scooped up the sweatpants I dropped earlier and tied my shoes, not bothering to find socks.

I crouched on the floor, creeping over to the window, which didn’t have a clear view of the living room. With one check behind me, I spotted Corbin still on the couch, the computer on his lap, but he’d changed positions. I no longer had a view of the phone or a way to tell if he had it against his ear.

I rose slowly, making the least movements possible to not catch his attention. When I hit eye level with the window, I unlocked it, pulling gently to get it to open.

It didn’t budge.

Shit.

I tugged harder, putting more weight into it, but the window did not move. Layers of paint from previous redecorating had glued it shut. If I ever discovered who lived in this house before the twins, I’d give them a stern talking to. Didn’t they think of safety concerns? What about fires?

The bedroom didn’t have any other windows to try, but I needed to get out of the house and as far away from Corbin as possible without being detected. I’d have to walk past Corbin to get to the back door or the one in the living room, so neither were options.

The second bedroom on the other side of the hallway required walking past Corbin as well. That left me with one room. The bathroom.

I slipped out of the bedroom, walking quickly but hopefully quietly enough Corbin wouldn’t notice my movements. Or if he did, he wouldn’t ask why I had on shoes. Once I passed the opening to the living room, I sprinted to the bathroom in three long strides. I closed the door with a creak and took my first breath after turning the lock.

Fucking old houses. Creaky doors and painted-shut windows.

My apartment in Bangor might have lacked any artistic detail, but at least it was new and nothing squeaked. In true crappy luck fashion, I had more problems than an old house. I’d sufficiently locked myself in the bathroom, but how did I plan to get out?

Just as I chastised myself for taking away my escape options came a light knock on the wooden bathroom door, interrupting my silent berating.

“Is everything okay, Hazel?” Corbin asked. His words were light and didn’t sound suspicious, yet I couldn’t help but think they were.

No, everything was not okay. We had a whole slew of things not okay. Things that would never be okay ever again. Like if I survived this situation, I promised to swear off men.

I’d go home to Bangor and get myself a puppy.

No, I didn’t want a puppy. Puppies were a lot of commitment. More work than some men. Plus, they peed on things.

I’d get myself a houseplant. An easy to grow one. I’d set it on a windowsill, water it once a week, and feel accomplished.

Yeah. A nice houseplant, a Netflix subscription, and a few double fudge cookies were all I needed to get me through the rest of my life. Cookies never tried to sell me to a Chicago mobster for free.

The free thing really irritated me. My dead body was worth at least a few grand.

Obviously, I’d lost my mind.

Back to the cookies.

Not once in my twenty-some-odd years of life had a cookie ever done me wrong. Even those disgusting oatmeal raisin cookies. If I survived this, I’d embrace the oatmeal cookie. It didn’t deserve the crap I’d given it for years. Oatmeal raisin cookies did nothing to me.

“Hazel?” Corbin called again, and I shook myself from my thoughts.

There’d be time to contemplate cookies later. Right then, I needed to survive.

“I’ll be right out. Are the files done yet?” I asked because I couldn’t stop myself. Call me a glutton for punishment. I wanted Corbin to admit the files were finished, and he didn’t wake me up like he promised. Maybe he had a reason. A superb reason that might make me forgive him.

The door wiggled as if he leaned his body up against it getting comfortable. “Not yet,” he lied.

Lies.

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