Page 24 of Ever After
Every movement seemingly done in slow motion.
I feel the pinch of the needle in my upper arm, and everything goes blurry.
Grayson
“Bowers, don’t tell me you’re going through a midlife crisis. You aren’t old enough for that. What’s with the blond hair, huh?” Amelia questions as I walk through the station doors the next morning. A few heads turn in my direction, but nobody adds additional comments.
I force a laugh through my nose, and it comes out like a snort. “No. Just thought I could use a change. I’ve heard blonds have more fun; thought I’d give it a go.”
She laughs then turns serious again. “What are you getting yourself into?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I wanted a change.”
She lowers her voice and locks eyes with me. “Grayson, I can’t get you out of this one. We don’t have enough evidence to go after anyone. I can’t be back-up for you. Chief already told me he spoke with you about not meddling in this case.”
Amelia is a good detective—one of the best, but she does everything by the books. Chief’s word is gospel, and she’d be hard pressed to go against his wishes. I know deep down she understands these cases are related. I wish she would push the rules aside just this one time.
I step closer into her space, looking around for prying eyes and ears. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Amelia, I’ve got my bases covered. It’s going to be fine. The less you know, the better. Stick with my story of trying something new to see if I can have more fun, all right?”
She nods and takes a sip of her coffee. “We have a few people to interview today, some possible witnesses from her building. First one is in room three with some coffee, waiting for us.”
“Great, let’s get this over with then.”
* * *
The interviews were dull.No one actually saw anything useful, just heard her screaming. Most were too scared to check out what was happening; others seemed to ignore it, thinking it was a marital dispute. This is the worst part of the job, dealing with people who think they have a useful point of view, who don’t actually have solid evidence.
It’s three in the afternoon when we finish the interviews, and I call it a day. I need to get home and ready for whatever the hell I’m walking into tonight. I need to make sure I can school my emotions in front of these lowlifes. I also need to convince them I’m Chase Biggs, a freelance investment banker from New York.
I get home and change into a nice pair of black dress slacks, a white button down top, and a black jacket. I forgo the tie and unbutton the top two buttons, creating a more casual look. I’ve been told by a few girls in the past I can rock this look. I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying too hard.
Winston set me up with the whole works. I’ve never questioned how he has been able to get things set up so quick, but I’m glad I have him on my side. He’s even gone as far as putting up fake articles about me with my picture across the internet, depicting my good fortunes and my success. If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe it, too. I text Winston.
Me:You’re a mastermind, Winston. Thank you for this.
Winston:Don’t thank me until they believe you, then you can repay me. I have very expensive taste in liquor.
I chuckle at his response.Yeah, if that’s not the truest thing I’ve read. I change out my credit cards and IDs so everything matches my new identity before I walk out the door. I get into the rental car I got today—a sleek, sexy, convertible. Perfect for my new douche identity. I turn the key, and she purrs to life.Chase may be a douche, but he knows how to arrive in style.
I pull up outsideTemptressand hand the keys over to the valet. “You scratch her, and I’ll have your neck,” I say, trying out my thick New York lilt.
The kid nods and slides into the leather seat, pulling it away from the curb with ease.
Breathe. Remember to breathe.
I press my hands into my front pockets, square my shoulders, and walk through the front door as if I own the place. The bass from the music coming from the front speakers is so loud the ground beneath my feet shakes. The girls on stage spin around the pole and dance as men toss dollar bills their way. The place is crowded, and most of the patrons are dressed in dress pants and suit jackets—businessmen.
I secure a smug smile in place and walk up to the bartender.
“Hey, man, what can I get you?” he asks.
“I’m looking for a little indulgence,” I say, giving the bar top a jab with my pointer finger.
The man gives me a once over and locks eyes with me. “Go through the red door. First door on your right, there’s a set of stairs. Go down to the bottom. Third door down. No cameras. No phones. You can leave them with the guard downstairs.”
I turn away and walk in the direction he sends me. I push through the first door on the right. The further down I travel, the quieter the music becomes. Now, instead of the floor vibrating under my step, it’s an annoying buzz in the background. I take the last step and look down the dim hallway. A few lights line the ceiling, but other than that, it looks like there are only a few offices. There’s a large guard standing outside the third door, and I walk toward him.
He holds out his hand, palm up, as I approach. “Phone and ID.” I hand the items to him, and he places them in a small bag, sealing it shut. “Cash.” I pull money out and hand him the folded bills. “Viewing will start in a few minutes. You have one hour to check out the merchandise and decide.”