Page 15 of Killer Knows Best (Fallon Baxter FBI Mystery #4)

15

SHERRY KENT

T he city lights glitter as my heels click against the pavement and the air bites just enough to remind me that it’s fall. Denver can really be a show-off at night.

My stomach quivers, then followed by the rest of me, but it’s not the icy weather that has me shaking. I’ll admit, it’s a bad case of anxiety. Although a few shots of whiskey back at the house have done wonders. It was just enough to dull the nerves but keep me sharp.

I’m not making the same mistake as last time—shaky hands, dry throat, and that horrible headache afterward. No thanks. This time I’m ready.

Of course, my husband would lose his mind if he knew what I was up to. But who the heck cares? It’s his own fault because he stopped caring a long time ago.

I pause outside the hotel entrance, admiring my reflection in the amber glass doors. The gown I’ve donned is designer, naturally—emerald green, hugging my hips just right, showing off my best assets. The fishnets are cheap, but they’re well hidden under the fabric, a little surprise for my European businessman when the moment comes. It’s all part of the game. They love the illusion, the idea that I’m high-class, untouchable.

But underneath? Oh, I’m more than willing to play. I just play smarter. At least tonight I do.

I’ll admit, the first two times things were a little rocky on my end. Although judging by the generous tips, you’d never know. Maybe I wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was beginner’s luck. Nevertheless, I’m ready to impress tonight. It turns out a better performance and sure as heck yields a bigger tip.

The doorman offers to open the entrance for me and I shake my head his way. I’m not ready yet, but I can practically feel the warmth of the lobby. I know for a fact there’s a gala taking place in the ballroom tonight. It’s the perfect cover.

The scent of expensive cologne seeps out, filling the night air, and my ears are filled with the soft notes of piano music that drift from inside. I take in the creamy marble floors, the chandeliers that seem to float below the ceiling—this place screams luxury. It’s exactly the kind of environment where men with too much money and too little sense come to play.

My businessman is already waiting upstairs. All I have to do is wine, dine, stroke the ego a bit, and then cash in. Easy enough. I think it’s something I can get used to. Although, honestly, I have no plans to draw this out into a decades-long career. But it works for now, and that’s what’s important. Taking care of me, of my needs—my financial needs, that is. And I’ve had financial needs for the entire last year.

Thankfully, I’ve been funneled into the right circles as of late. A chance encounter at a party led to a gentleman friend—though the term friend is generous—who boasted about his experience with high-end escorts. One well-placed question later, and boom. I had the number.

You wouldn’t believe how many women are out there taking advantage of the men who think they’re the ones doing the taking.

Turnabout is fair play, right? And I do love to play.

I’ve never been a prude, and I’ve always been short on cash. It was a match made in a hellish sort of heaven.

I glance at my watch, and I’m a touch late. But the party doesn’t start until I get there.

A laugh bubbles from me as I look at my reflection in the window and adjust a strand of hair that’s fallen loose.

My husband, Paul, would be seething if he knew how well I was pulling this off. Scratch that. He would be seething if he knew I was pulling it off at all. But he forced my hand. He not only cut me off at the knees financially, but I’m well aware of the fact he’s spent years cheating on me.

I’ve turned a blind eye because the alternatives weren’t all that appetizing. I have no desire to pull a nine to five, and so I relegated Paul to a piggy bank all those years ago. But this new version of the man I married, the miser , I’m not at all amused.

And now he gets to wonder where the extra money is coming from. I just need to do this a few more times, and with my hidden savings, it’ll be enough to disappear for good.

Divorce?

Who needs it when you can just ghost the guy entirely?

And that’s exactly what I intend to do. One day you see me, the next day you don’t. Speaking of seeing me, I have a very enthusiastic client twiddling his thumbs.

My feet start in that direction once again then I pause.

Maybe I should hit the coffee shop across the street first? My buzz is starting to wear off and I can really use the caffeine infusion.

Without putting too much thought into it, I traipse across the street and narrowly miss a sedan looking to clip me at the knees. Doesn’t matter, I survived, I always do. Besides, I can smell the coffee from here, and I’m craving it twice as much now.

I continue in that direction as my mind runs through tonight’s plan. My guy is expecting someone confident, charming, and willing to stroke his ego like a poodle. I’m practically a professional at that by now.

It’s amazing how predictable men can be.

Flash a smile, tilt your head, and say the right thing— and surprise, surprise, they’re putty in your hands. And predictably, I’m about to leave him poorer than when he arrived.

I catch my reflection again, this time on the window of a dry cleaners just a few doors down from my intended destination.

The quiet confidence on my face is perfection. This is easy money.

Just as I’m about to head for the coffee shop again, a voice calls out. “Cold out, isn’t it?”

I turn as a figure steps in close. A tall person, face obscured by the shadows. Something about them makes my skin prickle. Maybe it’s the frozen night air or the way they just sidled up a little too close, but I shake it off. It’s probably the whiskey.

They’re dressed decent.

“Are you here for the gala?” I ask, flashing a smile. Just keep it light. “Looks like we’re both ready for a good time.”

The figure doesn’t respond. They just stand there, too still, too quiet.

Something twists in my gut.

They hook their arm through mine and we take a few steps past the dry cleaners, and into an alleyway before I can protest. My heels dig in and I try to bolt, but I can’t free my arm.

“What are you doing?” I shout just as a car honks in the distance. A hand clamps over my mouth and a sharp sting of pain slices deep across my throat .

I glance up at the stars as if they could somehow help me, and in that moment, everything goes black.

I don’t even have time to fight.