Page 22 of Only the Devil

Uncle Alvin died of natural causes; we presume heart but we’re waiting on the autopsy report. Mom said she was told that there’s always a wait for autopsy results, unless I guess foul play is suspected.

If Jocelyn had been murdered, they wouldn’t have just left her body. Would they? And wouldn’t there have been a sign of a struggle?

The empty query field begs for searches, so I search away. High profile deaths. The search leads me to celebrities and murders. But what about financial firms? So I search high profile deaths at fintech companies.

An article comes up with the title “19 execs who died last year.” Interesting. Who knew financial companies were this dangerous to your health?

One death jumps out at me. The CFO of Sterling Financial’s Singapore office. Three years ago. Suspicious circumstances. There are no follow-up articles, but the one I’m reading says that it’s common for a spate of suicides during times of economic turmoil.

Nothing after the first wave—classic. Headlines, then silence.

Are there others associated with Sterling that died by suicide? Did I overlook more connections?

I need to access ARGUS. I rush up the stairs to grab my phone where I left it charging. I’ll need the phone for double authentication.

Am I looking for connections where none exist? Possibly. Uncle Alvin was eighty-three. And we didn’t see any sign of injury on Jocelyn.

The bedroom door is ajar, and I push it open, only to stop feet from my phone. The bathroom door is wide open, and the shower’s running, the small bathroom’s steam creating a dreamlike haze.

I should back up now—close my eyes.

Jake’s in the shower, back to me. The water streams down his back, down his bare—and I must say, muscular—ass, but it’s the placement of his hand. His body is angled, giving me a view as he strokes himself, from his base to his tip. He’s thick and hard and my clit awakens at the sight, the sensation subtle but undeniable.

I should back out of the room and reposition the door so he doesn’t know I entered. I should not stare.

Yet the action of his hand mesmerizes. Propped up by one arm, head bent down, he’s watching the action too. His hand works the length; his thumb circles the crown. His fist tightens—and thick, white ribbons jet. My pulse hammers, rude and insistent. The strokes slow and my heartbeat thuds, riveted to the scene I shouldn’t see.

His neck bends, and his eyes close as he bows before the shower head. He backs away, wipes his eyes, and shakes his head, sending water droplets against the tile and glass.

Awareness I’m about to get caught watching like a perv, jolts me into action. I spin and slam straight into the door. Hard.

Fuck that hurt.

I rub my forehead, but don’t slow, instead rushing down the stairs, leaving my phone right where it was on the floor, charging.

Dammit. What the hell?

It’s not until I’m on the ground floor that my heart rate slows to normal and I take in the building across the street. Still no sirens or activity.

That’s where my focus should be. The dead woman across the street. Not the hot muscle-bound guy who’s here to collect a paycheck under the guise of keeping me safe.

I am probably just horny because my emotions were knocked out of whack yesterday, and I shared a bed with all that muscle last night.

“You okay?”

I close my eyes, breathing in deeply. Please to the gods above tell me he didn’t see me.

Jake’s on the landing, white towel wrapped low on his waist, water droplets dripping from his shoulders, down his insanely defined pecs to perfectly toned and rippled abs.

Holy moses, the man should model for avatar designers.

A fact I should not know.

“Daisy? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Good… morning?”

His eyes narrow and he rubs his beard. It’s most likely still drenched.