I shove it to the bottom of the stack, moving to the next one. It’s the same bed, same lighting, same woman. Different position. And the man… My heart rate skyrockets, chilling my skin. It’s undeniably Cole, his face rigid with tension as he pounds into her from behind.
Tears blur my eyes, and my hands shake violently as I flip through three more pictures.
The only thing that changes from photo to photo is the position in which he fucks her. Her on top, him on top, behind, in front, bent over…when I get to one with his face between her legs, bile hits the back of my throat. I can’t breathe, can’t move. I’m going to be sick.
I roll down the window, gulp down a draft of cold air, and force myself to look again. There’s no time stamp on the photos or calendar on the wall in the background, nothing to place the date. He had the tattoos before he met me. As godawful as it is to see this, the woman could be one of the hundreds he was with before we were together.
This doesn’t mean anything.
He’s not a cheater.
Fighting down panic and nausea, I sift through several more photos before a new scene pops up.
Blood. Pools of it spread out around the gruesome body of a man laid out on the floor. A crimson gash slashes across his throat, his lifeless eyes open and staring at the ceiling.
Dread broils in my stomach as I look closer. There’s another man standing at the edge of the frame with his back to the camera. My mind immediately tells me it’s Cole, but that’s not what I’m seeing.
The image is fuzzy and zoomed in, showing little of the surroundings. But the wood floors… the black suit on the man standing just inside the frame…
My pulse thunders as I flip to the next photo. And I gasp.
The shot is zoomed out, capturing a wider view. The man in the suit is turned to the side, his profile elegant and stern and unmistakably Trace Savoy.
I bite down so hard on my lip I taste iron. The blood-soaked, honey-wood flooring is my flooring. The fireplace, red velvet couch, and orange armchair… This happened in the front room of my house.
Why is Trace in my house with a man I don’t recognize? A man who clearly died from a cut across the throat.
Numb, frozen, I choke on air I can’t seem to pull into my lungs. Did the dead man come for me? Did he break into my house? When?
I skip through more photos, more shots of Trace standing over the body. Now that I’m looking closer, I see the knife clenched in Trace’s fist.
He killed a man.
In my house.
I press a hand over my mouth to stifle my keening noises. No wonder Cole and Trace were always on my ass about locking my doors. They fucking knew I was in danger and never told me.
I feel myself breaking down—runaway heartbeat, erratic breathing, ice-cold skin, sobbing wretched tears. I need to pull it together.
Wiping the moisture from my eyes, I clear my vision and focus on the floor in the pictures. The purple rug isn’t under the coffee table. I bought the shaggy thing at a yard sale about a year after Cole died. That means this photo was taken before I met Trace.
As that realization sinks in, my lungs wheeze, and more tears course down my cheeks.
Trace murdered someone in my house either before Cole left or while he was gone. Does Cole know? Where was I when it happened? What if I’d been home at the time?
I start to hyperventilate with fear and overwhelming paranoia. My lungs slam together, and my body rocks with my heaving gasps as I scan the surroundings and watch the rearview mirror. Am I in danger now?
Someone put this envelope in my car.
An envelope filled with incriminating evidence.
Trace committed a crime, and I’m holding the proof in my hands. Who would give this to me and why? Is there a vendetta against Cole and Trace? Is someone out for revenge? What if I’m the target?
With a sobbing breath, I turn over the ignition and shove the Midget into reverse. I plow through a bush, back over the curb, and hit the street. Then I throw it in first and slam on the gas, tearing through the gears and putting distance between me and my house.
Whoever left the envelope knows where I live. Clearly, they know my connection to Cole and Trace. Whatever this is, it’s connected to their stupid secret jobs.
When I veer onto the main thoroughfare, I glance at the speedometer and yank my foot off the gas pedal. Fuck. If I get pulled over by a cop with these pictures on my lap, Trace would go to prison.
He might be on my shit list—population: 2—but I should probably hear his plea before I have him hauled off in handcuffs.
I slow down the car, keeping my speed under the limit while stuffing the photos into the envelope. Except the last two. I raced out of my driveway so fast I didn’t make it through the stack.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I can’t study the final two photos, but quick glances tell me they’re more of Trace in my sitting room, only these are from a different camera angle. An angle that shows Cole’s motorcycle parked in my dining room.
That narrows down the date. It happened sometime after Cole left and a year before I met Trace. In that two-year time frame I was living alone and clueless as fuck.
As I put away the last two photos, the second camera angle raises more questions.
Was there a cameraman taking the pictures? Or were there multiple cameras hidden in my house? Are there cameras in my house now? If so, how did they get there?
For the next ten minutes, I keep driving, my mind spinning and my entire body painfully stiff and trembling. I have no idea where I’m going. I just can’t go home, and the only two people I can talk to about this are the last two people I trust right now.
Did Cole cheat on me? Or did he fuck that woman before we met? What about Trace? Did he murder a good man? A husband and father with a family that mourns him? Or was the man there to hurt me?
No matter the answers, I’ve been lied to. Deceived. Again. How much more are they keeping from me?
I don’t know where to go, but my subconscious seems to have made the decision for me. The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel looms two blocks ahead, its steel architecture glittering in the sunlight.
I’m supposed to be at work, but that won’t be happening. I park the car and head straight to Trace’s private elevator, hugging the envelope to my chest. I haven’t tried to enter my passcode since the night I drew him out into the sleeting rain.
Hunched over and shaking uncontrollably, I enter the code.
The doors open instantly.
I’m too freaked out to feel relief. I probably look it, too, like a trembling, wild-eyed nutjob with tears splotching my face. Good thing I’m all out of fucks to give.
I hit 30 on the panel of buttons, assuming he’s working. When I arrive on the office floor, I cross the lobby, turn down the hall, pass the receptionist desk, and reach for the door to his office.
“Miss Angelo, wait.” Marilyn, his assistant, rises from her chair. “You can’t go in there. He’s on a call.”
I swing open the door and shut it behind me.
Trace sits behind his desk, typing on his laptop with a phone at his ear. He looks up, scans my trembling, rigid posture, and meets my eyes.