Page 13 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
He's untouchable. A saint. The kind of man people admire and envy and aspire to be.
And I watched him kill someone.
The cognitive dissonance makes me dizzy. I close the laptop and press my palms against my eyes, trying to reconcile the man in the photographs with the man in the study. The blood on his hands. The peace on his face. The way he looked at me without fear or panic, just that strange, curious interest.
Like I was something he wanted to examine more closely.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bea, my closest friend since college.Coffee later? I need to vent about my boss.
I stare at the message for a long time. Bea doesn't know about the gala. Doesn't know about any of it. She thinks I spent last night arranging flowers for rich people, which is technically true. She has no idea that my life cracked open twelve hours ago and nothing will ever be the same.
Can't today,I type back.Not feeling great. Rain check?
Her response comes immediately.Uh oh. Gala hangover? Did you at least meet a hot billionaire?
I almost laugh. The sound that comes out is closer to a sob.
Something like that,I reply.I'll call you soon.
I put the phone face-down on the table and try not to think about how easily the lies come. How natural it feels to hide this, to carry it alone, to protect a secret that isn't even mine.
Or maybe it is mine now. Maybe the moment I didn't call the police, I made it mine.
Around noon, my mother calls.
I almost don't answer. Linda has a sixth sense for when something's wrong—she always has. When I was a child and tried to hide a scraped knee or a bad grade, she'd know before I even opened my mouth. Something in my face, she said. Something in the way I held my shoulders.
If I answer, she'll hear it in my voice. She'll push. She'll worry. And I can't explain this to her—can't find words for what I saw, what I'm feeling, what I'm doing sitting at my kitchen table staring at a flower left by a killer.
But if I don't answer, she'll worry more. She'll call back, again and again, until I pick up. She might even come over.
I answer.
"Hi, Mom."
"Sweetheart. How did it go? I've been thinking about you all night."
Her voice is warm but tight. I can hear the anxiety underneath, that constant hum of worry that's been part of her for as long as I can remember.
"It went fine," I say. "The arrangements looked great. The client seemed happy."
"And the people? The Ambroses?"
Something about the way she says the name makes me pause. There's weight in it. History.
"I didn't really interact with them. I was just there to do the flowers."
"But you saw them? The brothers?"
"From a distance. Why?"
A pause. Too long to be casual.
"No reason. I just... I wanted to make sure everything was okay. That no one bothered you."
"Bothered me how?"
"I don't know. Forget I said anything. I'm just being a worried mother."
