Page 157 of The Colour of Revenge

A tear slips down my cheek as my throat tightens. It’s like he knows exactly what I need before I even find the words.

He taps my foot, indicating for me to lift it. I grasp his shoulders to keep upright as he very thoroughly cleans each of my feet.

He leaves no part of me untouched. But it’s not sexual. It’s just intimacy in its purest form—care, devotion, a silent promise that I’m not alone.

I do the same for him.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Once we’re both clean Nate switches off the shower, then wraps me in a big fluffy pink towel I hadn’t noticed him place on the radiator to warm up.

By the time we’re lying in bed, my head resting on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, I feel more at peace.

Not whole yet. Not myself.

But a little less lost.

“I love you, Carina. I’ll always be here to pick you back up.”

A tear squeezes from my eye. “I love you too,” I whisper, the words so easy to say. Nothing like before when I feared them.

Nate tightens his arms around me.

I drift to sleep, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I might come out the other side of this.

42

This Just Went From Bad To Catastrophic

Hypothetical Question: How would you choose to dispose of a body in a way that would disgust even the most seasoned forensic expert?

Carina

Thepolicecomeknockinga day later.

I put on the act, pretending to grieve when they announce my father's death with heartfelt apologies.

An investigation gets opened into his murder which leads to many conversations with detectives in the weeks after.

“And you have no idea who might have wanted to harm your father?”

The detective’s voice is steady, probing, but there's a hint of suspicion beneath it. A quiet, deliberate challenge.

“No,” I reply, forcing the practiced lie past my lips, my tone innocent, my face a picture of confusion. The perfect mask.

“Lucian Moretti, he’s your fiancé?” He looks up from his notes, eyeing me closely.

The name twists inside me like a blade. I force my fingers to remain still in my lap. “Was,” I say the word through gritted teeth, the bitterness of it seeping out despite my best efforts to remain composed.

He watches me too closely. “Have you heard from him recently?”

“Not since we broke things off,” I lie, each word dripping with false sincerity.

The detective leans back slightly, studying me. Calculating. “And when exactly was that?”

I tilt my head, pretending to think, letting the silence stretch out before I respond. “About two weeks ago.” I glance down at my hands in my lap, keeping my face carefully neutral.