Page 62 of Taming Seraphine

Walking in, I mutter, “He would have jumped out of the tub otherwise.”

Leroi snorts.

I whirl around. “What?”

He selects the eleventh floor. “If he was convulsing, then it was an overdose. The poison you injected your target with killed him, not the electricity.”

“You don’t know that.” I cross my arms. “Anyway, why are you so bothered by all the minor details?”

“Because you’re reckless. The toaster you threw into the man’s bath would have attracted attention, or at least started a fire. You also could have gotten yourself electrocuted.”

“Hairdryer,” I mutter.

“What?”

“I threw a hairdryer into his bath. The toaster oven would have needed an extension lead, and it was too far away.”

Leroi shakes his head. “You must have a guardian angel because anyone else in your position would have gotten caught.”

The elevator doors open, and we step out into a hallway lined with black doors. Leroi takes a right turn and leads us to the apartment at the very end. Before he gets a chance to ring the bell, the door swings open, revealing a tall, thin man wearing a pink kimono and a flesh-colored wig cap. He’s blessed with a natural beauty, high cheekbones, a pert nose, and thick, dark lashes that don’t need makeup.

His gaze passes over Leroi and lands straight on me. “This is the girl?”

Leroi nods. “Can you help her?”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the man asks with a broad grin.

“You don’t need to know.” Leroi shoves his way inside, making the thinner man stumble backward with a shriek. “This is Farfalla. Don’t hurt him.”

Farfalla steps aside and lets me in. I cast him a wary glance, but his eyes only radiate warmth.

My gaze lands on an indigo velvet sofa that takes center stage of his apartment, adorned with silver throw pillows. The walls are painted cream, and the artwork is so colorful that my eyes hurt. Fashion sketches hang beside magazine covers in gilded frames and three-dimensional paintings.

A jazz instrumental fills the room, along with faint hints of incense. Vague memories of art lessons rise to the surface, but I shove them back. I’m no longer the carefree girl who took cookery and art classes at an expensive private school.

Leroi walks through the colorful space as though he’s seen it all before and leans against a wall. “We need a subtle disguise that will make her look less?—”

“Angelic?” Farfalla asks with a raised brow.

My lips thin. “Don’t call me that.”

Farfalla’s gaze snaps to Leroi’s, and something unspoken exchanges between them. I take another look at the man, wondering if there’s more to him than his harmless appearance.

He gazes down at me, his features softening. “If you want to look less distinctive, you’ll need heavier makeup, darker hair, and a change in eye color.”

“Is that really necessary?” I ask.

“Yes,” Leroi says.

Farfalla leads me into a dressing room illuminated by a vanity mirror surrounded by lightbulbs. Clothes racks take up most of the walls, each displaying an array of feminine costumes. It’s obvious that he’s some kind of performer. A sink sits in the corner beside a wall-mounted hood dryer and chair, where there’s already a box of store-bought hair dye.

Leroi slips a stopper beneath the door to keep it wedged open. I try not to bristle that he doesn’t trust me alone with his friend and instead focus on Farfalla.

He tilts his head, his gaze wistful. “It’s almost a shame to dye such lovely hair.”

“Then darken it with coffee,” I say.

Both men stare down at me like I’ve said something crazy.

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