Page 35 of His Puppet

I step up next to him and frown. “How did he die?”

His face hardens. “He was shot by some fucking lowlife thug.” A moment goes by before Matt looks at me apologetically. “Sorry, I shouldn’t unload my shit on you.”

I put my hand on his arm in a soft touch. “Don’t worry about it.”

I leave my hand there, and he moves his gaze to look at it. I can feel it as the tension grows, feel the stress emanating from this man. He’s sad. He probably works way too many hours and rarely spends a night in bed with his wife. It’s a perfect combination for the mistake he’s about to make. I’d feel bad about it if I wasn’t so fucking determined.

I lift onto my toes, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him fiercely. He doesn’t fight it, not even for a single second, and my guilt eases some because of it. Maybe he isn’t such a good guy, after all. Maybe his wife is better off without him.

I swirl my tongue with his, my stomach twisting as I do, and after a minute of this, Matt grips my ass and lifts me into the air. He carries me to the desk, flings several things off it, and lays me on my back.

We work frantically to get our clothes off, and I work just as frantically in my head to search for a way around this. I spot a letter opener, sprawled on the desk with the other stuff and get an idea.

Loosely gripping the letter opener in my palm, I wait for Matt to push me back on the desk. When he does, I slice my back with the letter opener and cry out.

“What?” Matt asks, Jumping back.

I sit up and reach behind me. “Something cut me.”

Matt helps me up and spins me around. “Oh shit.” He picks up the letter opener to examine it. “Anna, I am so sorry. Come on, I have a first aid kit in the upstairs bathroom.”

I bring my fingers in front of me and sway my head like I’m about to faint. “Oh my God,” I say, sliding to the floor.

Matt holds out his hands and distraughtly walks backward to the door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He takes off out of the room, and I waste no time, jumping up and running around the desk. I flip open the laptop and immediately type “Austin” in when it asks for a passcode.

I’m in. I let out a relieved laugh.

I open up the files and search for something with ‘Mathews’ in the name but come up empty. Of course he wouldn’t have it in his personal files. Too easy to hack.

I search the desktop screen, finding an icon that looks promising. It has “database” in the name. I click on it, and it asks me for a passcode. Easy. 67591.

Incorrect passcode.

No.

What?

Fuck.

I tap my fingers and anxiously look toward the door. The passcode is five digits, but it’s not 67591. What the fuck is it?

My eyes roam the badges again, and I quickly hop up. The numbers on the badges tell me it’s Matt’s number that’s his phone’s passcode. Makes sense not to use the same one for a police database. Wouldn’t want someone sneaking in and breaking into the laptop, right?

Blade, you are such a fucking asshole.

I read Austin’s badge number, rush to the computer, and type it in.

I’m in.

I’m fucking in.

I pull the flash drive from my bra and stab it into the computer’s USB port. It takes me maybe a minute to find the file Blade asked for. It’s at the top of Matt’s list and contains a shitton of info. I drag and drop the file to the flash drive and wait for it to download.

Footsteps bound down the stairs.

Oh no.

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