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EMILY

T he following week, another box appeared. This time with a pair of men’s slacks neatly folded inside it. Not long after that, a man’s watch. But it wasn’t until the last package arrived on my doorstep with a wallet wrapped up in black tissue paper that everything finally sank in. And sent a fresh wave of panic surging through my veins.

The television was playing in the living room, white noise to help mitigate the suffocating silence that seemed to always surround me. The news anchor’s voice carried into the kitchen as I set the small iridescent box on the table and started shifting through the contents of the wallet. Nothing out of the ordinary, besides the unconventional packaging. A few credit cards, a gym membership, and an ID that belonged to…

“A man’s naked body was discovered by hikers last week, the remains mutilated and burned before they were dumped in a remote location just outside the city. After extensive testing conducted by the county’s medical examiner’s office, the victim has been identified as a Mr. Grant Nielson from…”

My head snapped up to the screen, while the rest of the woman’s words landed on deaf ears the moment she repeated the name that was staring back at me from the little plastic card still clutched in my now trembling hands.

I knew what I should do. The right thing to do. What any emotionally stable individual would have done under similar circumstances. Left everything where it was and immediately reached out to the proper authorities. And definitely not do whatever they could to contaminate a potential crime scene.

Instead, I tugged on a pair of rubber gloves I used to scrub the dishes. Wiped my prints off the cards in the wallet and tossed any piece of evidence that could have possibly linked me to Grant into an industrial-size trash bag. Including the freshly laundered lingerie and bedsheets. I wasn’t a criminal, but for some reason, I had no problem thinking like one.

Then I dropped the bag into the trunk of my car, glancing over my shoulder before slamming it closed. I didn’t know where I was going but I would figure it out when I got there. I was on autopilot, acting without much thinking as I jumped into the driver’s seat. Backed out of the spot and turned on to the main road. Every stop light and street sign a blur as I stared through the windscreen without seeing much of anything at all. Just streaks of color and flashes of movement.

A short ride later, I was pulling up to the large iron gates that welcomed you to Prescott Manor—it was the one thing Marisela couldn’t tack her name on. The estate was owned by Tate’s family, passed down from generation to generation with no wiggle room in the language of the deed. Something I learned after extensive legal research I was forced to sift through when one of the man’s many mistresses tried to claim she was pregnant with his rightful heir.

Marisela and Tate didn’t have any children together, which was more of a blessing than anything if you asked me. Even if it made her stake in his holdings weak at best.

For as long as my former boss’s body was missing, his wife was permitted to reside on the property. But once a trace of him was found, she’d be out on her ass and everything would be turned over to the only remaining Prescott. Tate’s half-brother, born out of wedlock and never given the privileges that came with the paternal blood that ran through the bastard’s veins.

I couldn’t tell you what led me to Marisela’s doorstep. I was her employee, not her friend. But something in my gut told me she would understand. Maybe even help me. At the very least, provide some guidance. She knew better than anyone else that it didn’t matter if you were guilty or not. It only mattered what it looked like. And right now, it looked like I had a dead man’s belongings shoved inside the trash bag currently clutched in my hands.

Before I could knock, the large ornate door was swinging inward and I was being escorted into the parlor room by Marisela’s butler. I offered the man a tight smile and he dismissed himself, after assuring me Ms. Cruz would be with me shortly.

There was a tray of sweets already set out on the sideboard, a few fancy cups, and a carafe of fresh coffee from the smell of it. But I didn’t have the stomach to eat, while caffeine would only serve to heighten the pounding in my chest.

If the electric chair didn’t kill me, a heart attack just might.

I was too stunted—perhaps still in shock—to realize how much time had passed before I heard the familiar clicking of heels travel down the grand staircase. Clack against the tile flooring of the foyer and pause at the threshold to the parlor. I pushed up from the plush sofa as soon as I felt Marisela’s glare boring through the side of my head. And took a tentative step forward.

She lifted a palm to stop me. “First thing’s first, nena . Did you do it?”