Page 83 of 432 Hours

Page List


Font:  

I knew better than to mention the new shoes she’d gotten for the benefit.

“Okay. Just let me know,” I said, pressing a kiss to her temple, then watching her walk away and disappear into her waiting car.

My gaze slid to the doorman, Frank, who was trying to direct some lost tourists to some destination.

I felt a little guilty about tracking down his daughter, but had to remind myself of the scar on Miranda’s arm, the intention behind that.

She was relatively easy to track down, since she was still living in the second-floor walkup she’d been at when she’d been working for Miranda.

Maude, judging by her file, was twenty-seven.

She looked younger in person with her long, golden-blonde hair, heart-shaped face with pouty lips, and big blue eyes.

I seemed to catch her on errand day, and I followed behind her as she bopped from one store to the next.

Yes, bopped was the right way to describe it.

The woman seemed to almost bounce on her feet as she move around. Light, carefree.

Not, in my experience, the kind of person who tries to kill another human being.

But, hell, who the fuck knew.

Most serial killers were described as nice, normal people. Good neighbors. Steady employees.

Maybe she was hiding a shitton of crazy under all that upbeat, behind all those smiles she gave to the employees of the stores as well as random strangers on the streets.

She even stopped to drop change to a couple of houseless people along the way.

It was all just… very normal.

The bank. Pharmacy. Groceries. Then a quick stop into a coffee shop to get some fancy iced drink to have on her walk back home.

I looked away just for a minute, wanting to check the time.

And I lost her somehow.

“Shit,” I hissed, rushing forward, wondering if she’d hopped into a cab, or had gone down into the subway or something.

At least, that was what my mind was on until she suddenly stepped out of an alley and in front of me, her chin up, her gaze fierce.

“Why the fuck are you following me?” she hissed.

Gone was the soft and sweet and bouncy, a girl who seemed more like a transplant than a native.

But this woman in front of me—her bags gone, her coffee out of her hand, and in their place, an expandable baton and an eye-gouger—with her shoulders drawn back and her stance wide, ready to beat the piss out of me? Yeah, this was a native New Yorker.

“I need to talk to you about Miranda Coulter,” I said, figuring direct was the best idea. If for no other reason than to see her reaction to her former boss’s name.

“Miranda?” she asked, face scrunching up. “Why?”

“You worked for her.”

“Yeah, for like… less than a year,” she said, shaking her head. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m getting my wallet,” I told her, showing her my hands before and after I reached into my pocket.

I handed her a business card.


Tags: Jessica Gadziala Romance