Page 57 of A Taste like Sin

morbid present accounted for—though not one of Simon’s.

Pushing myself upright, I remove my coat before I leave the kitchen in search of my fourth gift.

And I rip the entire suite apart looking for it. His usual spot would be the bathroom, taped to the

mirror, my final reminder of why we play his twisted game.

But it’s not there.

Or in the hall.

Or in my bedroom.

I give up somewhere in the middle of searching the walk-in closet. Around me, I sense the world

continuing, the day elongating. Shadows loom and deepen across the floor, but I can’t move. It’s

selfish in retrospect. My father could be dying. Damien could be moving on to his next conquest.

Or Simon could be waiting to finish me off once and for all.

When heavy footsteps intrude into my suite, I’m convinced it’s him—ha, not even a police presence

would deter him. My old tormentor has come to finish me off for good. Is that what really happened to

Lynn McKelvy?

I should feel terror building with every slow, approaching step.

But I don’t.

All I can do is tilt my head to watch a figure appear in the threshold of my room, bathed in indigo

twilight.

“I did offer to retrieve your things,” Damien announces before advancing a step. “Though I will admit

your method seems more…lively.” He tentatively nudges a wad of clothing strewn across his path

with his foot, but his clenched jaw betrays just how unsure he is. One of his hands feels out in front of

him to maintain his balance, a rare sign of instability.

“Wait!” I lurch upright and kick any nearby objects out of his way. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You’re crying.” He grabs my wrist with uncanny insight, pulling me toward him. His cocked head

warns that he’s tracking every hitch in my voice. There’s no point in trying to disguise it. “I know

packing can be overwhelming for some, but I suspect that is not the case in this instance.”

“Lynn McKelvy was attacked by Simon,” I croak in a rush. “I know it was him. He haunted her on her

birthday too. Every year. But then one year, he stopped…and she died—”

“Slow down,” Damien urges. His hand sinks into my hair, parting the thick strands. Subtly applied

pressure urges me closer to him until my face is resting against his chest. “Breathe.”