Page 68 of His Twisted Game

The man in black grabbed the victim’s hair with his gloved hand, then sliced the knife across the victim’s throat, the victim choking on his own blood as he gurgled, his body falling forward. The man in black rested his foot on the back of the victim’s head, pushing the victim’s face into his own blood.

My heart raced.

What the hell was this?

The man in black bent down, then lifted the man’s head until his dead eyes were in the camera’s lens, the yellow and pink flesh split open on his neck like a second mouth. The killer bent down, peering into the lens himself. Every part of him was covered in black, except for his blue-gray eyes. A cruel calmness rippled through his expression.

The video ended, freezing on those eyes. I knew those eyes. I had stared into them before, felt that chill when they landed on me. But that couldn’t be Sawyer. We had talked about murder. How it was wrong to kill. He had asked me if I would kill for my library and I had said that I would rather die than kill for it.

But Sawyer had never said if he would kill himself.

So if the man in black on that videowasSawyer—and if it was a video of his work, like he said, then that would explain why we couldn’t find anything about the Feldman Farm; a business like that had to be kept secret. And it would also explain why a coroner had faked Sawyer’s father’s cause of death.

But one thing confused me: Sawyer had told me his truth through a video.

Why hadn’t he told me to my face?

I’m a blood-thirsty leader of an assassin company.

I killed him.

But hehadtold me to my face. I hadn’t believed him.

It didn’t seem real. Sawyer was protective. He looked after me.

Could he really be a killer?

I exited the file, but the screen froze. Nothing moved. I panicked, then grabbed the file out of the computer and smacked the screen.

“Come on,” I whispered.

But nothing happened. I smacked the screen’s button off as another person came in through the entrance. Erica searched for the part-timer, but since she was shelving the nonfiction, Erica put on a fake smile and helped the patron.

I switched on the screen. The blue-gray eyes were still there.

I climbed under the desk, then unplugged everything, the humming sounds coming to a halt.

“Fi?” Erica asked.

“Under here,” I said.

She raised her brow. “What are you doing?”

“Your computer froze.” I shrugged. “I had to unplug it.”

She laughed. “You broke my computer? I hope the file was worth it.”

I forced a laugh back, but it unsettled me. It had seemed more like a horror movie than an actual clip of someone working. What had I just seen?

How would Sawyer explain it to me?

As soon as Erica went back to the front desk, I dialed Sawyer. “Hey,” I said. My fingers rattled against my phone.

“What?” he growled.

I paused, not knowing what to say. Why was I calling? What would it accomplish? It’s not like he could admit he was a murderer over the phone.

“I’m working,” he said quietly, correcting himself. “Our main rival’s employment base has been substantially downsized, but I’m in the middle of confirming that. What do you need?”