Page 65 of Thankless in Death

In dreams, she sat with Lori Nuccio on the padded crates in the tiny apartment. Lori’s hair swept down to her shoulders, sleek, a glossy reddish brown. Blue eyes reflected sadness out of her unmarred face.

“I didn’t want to look like how he left me.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“I thought he just needed motivation, and—you know—inspiration. He was cute, and he could be funny. He wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t mean. Not at first. He treated me okay, and I wanted to help him. I was the stupid one.”

“I don’t think so. You cared about him. You thought you could help him grow up some.”

“Yeah, I guess. I liked having a steady boyfriend. Having somebody, and he’d had some bad luck. He said he had. A lot of bad luck. People were jealous of him, and screwing with him. But that’s not really the way it was. He had such nice parents, and I thought he’d come around.”

She knuckled a tear away. “But he just got worse instead of better. He wouldn’t work, and he complained all the time, and he never helped clean up the apartment. Then he took the money, my money, and when I got mad, he hit me. I had to kick him out. It was what I had to do.”

“It was. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But he killed me for it and now I’ll never get married or have kids or go shopping with my friends. And he hurt me, really bad. He cut my hair off, and it was so pretty. Now I look like this.”

Her hair fell away, hank by hank, her eyes swelled, blackened, her lip split.

“I’m sorry for what he did to you. I should’ve stopped him.”

“I just wanted a fresh start. But he wouldn’t let me. I don’t want my parents to see me like this. Can you fix it? Can you fix me?”

“I’ll do what I can. I’m going to find him, Lori. I’m going to make sure he’s held accountable for what he did to you.”

“I’d rather not be dead.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to argue with that.”

“He would,” Lori said solemnly. “He wants a lot of people dead.”

“It’s my job to make sure he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“I hope you do your job, because so far, he’s getting it.”

Hard to argue with that, too, Eve thought, and slid into the more comforting dark.

•••

While Eve talked to the dead in dreams, Reinhold gloated over his latest luck.

He’d known the old hag had some money, but he hadn’t known she had money. By the time he emptied her accounts, he’d have three million, nine hundred and eighty-four thousand in his brand-new name—or the name to come once they generated that new ID.

When he added it to what he’d, ha-ha, inherited from his parents, and gotten from his former bitch girlfriend, he’d be rolling in more than four fucking million dollars.

Jesus, he thought the hundred seventy-five thousand he’d had—minus what he’d spent—was a big deal. It was nothing compared to this.

He could have anything he wanted now. Anyone he wanted now.

He’d never have to work a day in his life to live like a king. Except for the killing, that is. But what was that old bullshit his father always tossed around?

If you love your work you’re never working. Something like that.

Who knew the stupid bastard would actually be right about anything?

And now he had a droid—a pretty classy one—reprogrammed to follow his orders, and only his.

He’d really enjoyed that when he’d ordered up a midnight snack.