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Soon enough, the police would realize Jason’s phone was missing… if they hadn’t already. They might be tracking it now, which was why she’d only turned it on briefly at the library, a ball cap pulled low over her face to hide her from any cameras. The sooner she could confirm her safety and ditch the thing, the better.
There was only one place left to go: the morgue.
Brittany extended the pack of gum her way, but Juliette waved it off. Was the morgue really the least risky option? Ronan wasn’t going to help her with a stolen cell, and he’d ask far too many questions if Jason actually had been hired by her ex. But did she really think that she could scan Jason’s face with the phone to get it open? Was she stupid enough to walk into the morgue? Just because she could talk the talk with other “death professionals” didn’t mean she’d walk out unnoticed.
Just wait a few hours for Waylon and get your money. Convince Ronan you’re innocent. Then fucking run.
Running was the only viable option. What else could she do? She’d faked her own death once, but she’d waited three months for the perfect opportunity. Left her own blood all over the house, overturned tables to make it appear there had been a struggle. Then she’d lit the house on fire as if Daniel had been trying to obliterate the evidence.
The fire was a contingency plan—whether he was locked away in prison or dead hadn’t mattered to her so long as he was gone. But both plans had inexplicably failed.
Every single part of that crime scene had been staged to make him look guilty. Even the inside of the trash can was smeared with her blood. Body or not, they should have arrested him, at least questioned him—ruined his career.
But they hadn’t. He was above the law, as he’d always claimed to be.
The hairs on her spine prickled, and Juliette refocused on the street. Brittany was still watching her.
“How long ago did they take Waylon away?” she forced out.
“Maybe… five minutes? And before you ask, your hot cop didn’t say anything about when they’d be back. He’s such a… take-charge type.” She winked, a sparkle in her eyes.
Juliette resisted the urge to ball her fist—rage? No. Jealousy. “He’s not my hot cop,” Juliette managed, but her voice shook.
“Then you won’t mind if I take a run at him, right? He seemed pretty into me last night.” Brittany waggled her eyebrows—if you know what I mean.
Her heart sank. Juliette did know what she meant. He’d probably been hard when Brittany brought him that drink.
Juliette wasn’t special. Even if he thought she was beautiful, she was just another girl for him to watch. And now… she was a witness. She was a job. The way he was a job to every girl in that club.
“Jenny?”
Juliette blinked. “Sorry. Yeah, go ahead. Let me know how it goes, okay?”
From the excitement in Brittany’s eyes, Juliette had no doubt that she would. And from the way her chest tightened, acid boiling in her stomach, she knew she was already in too deep. Deep enough to be dangerous. Because whether Daniel knew where she was now, he’d find her eventually.
He always did.
She couldn’t afford attachments or heartbreak—emotions were dangerous when she needed every ounce of her resolve just to survive.
Juliette watched Brittany turn on her heel—platforms even outside of work—and click her way up the road. She took a deep breath, the sharp tang of garbage from the alleyway souring the sticky air.
This was for the best. Let Brittany distract him. Let Ronan fixate on someone else.
Maybe then Juliette could convince herself to forget him too.
Before she got him killed.
Chapter 11
Ronan
Ronan slapped the cruiser door shut hard enough to make his hand ache.
“So, she knew the deceased,” Paddy said, the autumn air ruffling the orange mop on his head. “They were together at Last Stop two days ago, the night before he died.”
Last Stop Tavern. The place was grimy in the light of day, the sloppy proprietor in a T-shirt that said “Kiss the Cook,” a stain in the left armpit. The building probably looked better at night, when Garrick Vinder had seen the couple, her in jeans and a sweater—“Downright conservative for this part of town,” he’d said.
Vinder had no idea what Mercer had been wearing. He’d been sure the blond man was with her but had no other information outside of that she’d left suddenly. He hadn’t been surprised, had thought the woman was too good for Mercer. Ronan barely knew her, but he definitely agreed. Every curve on her body was downright perfect.