Page 13 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Nico

Zeno had managed to track the car down to another traffic camera a few blocks down.

Unfortunately, it had heavy tint and plates that traced back to nothing—likely snatched off of some abandoned car somewhere.

He’d been working through thousands of hours of camera footage from traffic cameras and security cameras coming from dozens of establishments, following the possible paths the car might have taken.

I was going to owe him a shit ton of money when this was all done for all the hours he was putting in on this.

In uncharitable moments, I wondered if it was going to be worth the money. If Matt wasn’t the man I hoped he was, if our friendship was nothing but opportunism and lies.

That said, there was some part of the whole situation that wasn’t sitting right with me. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to sleep at night without knowing who’d done it and why.

As far as Lorenzo and Zeno could tell, there was no one actively threatening the Family.

But I didn’t trust that there wouldn’t be some kind of blowback on us. I didn’t want anyone to die because I didn’t investigate this to the bitter end.

As the days stretched on with no progress, though, I was starting to lose hope.

As for being neighbors with Blair, well, we saw each other here and there. We were both relatively early risers, so she would often be coming in when I was heading out. But we only exchanged a few quick words.

No more intimate dinners.

No private runs through Central Park where I have to save her from danger.

And definitely no getting to watch her eye-fuck me in my doorway.

I’d been trying to convince myself since then that it wasn’t technically anything personal.

That it was normal for a woman to have a reaction to a half-naked and half-hard man that she found reasonably attractive.

Add in the fact that she was still grieving.

And, of course, that her marriage had clearly been on the rocks for a long time, so she’d likely been in a dry spell.

Biology was not personal.

Try telling that to my cock, though.

Anytime I thought about that scene, I was rock-hard in seconds. I’d tried not to give in to the temptation, telling myself that if I let myself, it was only going to make the situation worse. But after the third night lying awake, my cock straining, balls aching, there was just no choice.

Did I try to think of someone—anyone—else?

Sure.

But within seconds, it was Blair’s hands on me, her mouth on me, her pussy clenching around my length as she cried out against my ear.

“Fuck,” I grumbled, whipping off the covers and reaching down, rubbing my hand up my cock through my pants.

A low groan escaped me, and I was almost embarrassed by how hard I could get for a woman I’d never touched.

I was just about to slide my hand under my waistband when I heard it.

A loud crash from above.

Given the soundproofing in these apartments, the sound was shocking enough to have me shooting up in bed, heart hammering.

I listened for a second. But heard nothing more.

I should have let it go.

People dropped things all the time.

But I was already climbing off the bed, grabbing a shirt, and pulling it on before making my way through my apartment.

I grabbed my phone and keys and was in the elevator before I could talk myself out of it.

There was a mixture of concern and hope swelling in me. Part of me was worried she maybe fell and hurt herself. Or had gotten trapped under a large piece of furniture. The other part was thinking she’d been struggling to do something and would appreciate a man to help her accomplish the task.

And then what? She’d thank me on her knees?

I had to get a fucking grip.

I was just going to give a little knock, make sure she wasn’t hurt, then go back to my damn apartment to sleep. Without jerking off to thoughts of her yet again.

All those thoughts fell away, though, when I made my way out of the elevator car and spotted her apartment door wide open.

“Fuck,” I hissed to myself, wishing I’d thought to grab a gun before heading up.

Oh, well.

There was no time to go back now. Someone could be in there with Blair. She could be hurt.

I rushed forward, slipping into the doorway of her darkened apartment.

The only light came from a small nightlight in the kitchen.

The silence inside had my heart rate ratcheting up.

My eyes adjusted to the low light as I moved into the hallway, inching down toward the primary bedroom, knowing it was where Blair would be at this time of night.

I moved inside, flicking on the light.

But there was no one there.

The bed was still made, not a single wrinkle in the covers, the pillows karate-chopped down the center.

Nothing seemed out of place as I moved toward the bathroom, finding it empty.

I was just stepping into her walk-in closet when I heard it.

Footsteps in the hall.

I rushed out.

Then did the one thing I shouldn’t have.

Called out to Blair.

I knew my thinking in that moment had been to try not to scare the shit out of her by realizing a man was in her apartment uninvited.

But I hadn’t been thinking of it being someone else in the apartment.

At the sound of my voice, the footsteps picked up speed, leaving me running out just in time to see a man in a hoodie rushing out of the apartment.

“Shit,” I hissed, casting a quick glance into the room he’d run out of to make sure Blair wasn’t bleeding out on the floor, then rushed out to follow him.

Clearly not a complete idiot, the man had taken off down the stairs, not the elevator.

The door slammed with a metallic thunk as I raced down the hall, dead-set on finding who the hell was in her place when she wasn’t home.

Did she have a stalker?

The same guy from the park, even?

Or, worse yet, could it have been the same person who’d gunned down Matthew?

Or just some random crime? An empty apartment? An easy target?

I flew down the stairs, my bare feet slapping on the steps as the man charged faster still downward.

I pushed myself faster, wanting to grab the fuck, slam him against the wall, and get some answers out of him.

But when I heard the bar on the lower door depress, indicating he was already out, I knew the chances of catching up to him on the streets were slim to none. Especially if he managed to dip into a store or duck into a cab.

I followed still, but when I scanned the street, I didn’t see the guy anywhere.

“Damnit,” I grumbled, heading around the building to talk to the doorman.

But he hadn’t seen anyone matching the description either. And he certainly didn’t remember letting him into the building.

It looked like I had yet another job for Zeno, I decided as I made my way back up to Blair’s apartment, closing and locking the door behind me.

Then I made a beeline for the hall bathroom, washing my street-dirty feet, knowing Blair would have a stroke about me spreading that kind of filth through her apartment.

Finished with that, I walked through her apartment, flicking on all the lights, looking for any signs of why the man had been there.

As far as I could tell, all of her valuables seemed accounted for. She hadn’t even been trying to hide her jewelry in the primary closet. Everything was set carefully in a cream-colored case. There were no obvious gaps.

All of her TVs were accounted for. Her very expensive desktop was on the desk in her new study.

It took me a long time to even figure out what could have made that loud crash I’d heard before.

But in the spare bedroom, I found it.

A safe was on its side in the closet. Like maybe he’d dropped it, then in his haste to right it, put it back wrong. Or maybe he’d been planning to take it until I came into the apartment and foiled his plans.

Very possibly petty crime, then. Of course someone would zero in on a safe if they would take one. Even if common sense would tell you to grab the easier-to-transport items.

I likely didn’t have to worry.

But what if it wasn’t random? What if someone was looking for something belonging to Matt?

Torn, I reached for my phone, deciding I had to text her.

Hey, Blair. Where are you?

That was the best I could come up with after trying a few times. I didn’t want to freak her out. I figured I could ease her into the truth myself in person.

And that had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to see her.

JFK. Just got in from Georgia. Trying to get a cab. Is everything alright?

No wonder I hadn’t seen her in a few days. She’d been traveling for work. Likely curating a collection for some rich southern family with tons of money and no personal taste in art.

I shot back a text about speaking to her when she got home. In response, she told me when she slipped into a cab.

I made my way out of her apartment, figuring she’d freak out less if I greeted her in the hallway.

About half an hour later, I watched the elevator lights count her way up to the floor. Then saw her slowly appear as the doors parted.

She looked like it had been a long night. Or a long trip.

Her usually pristine pants and shirt were wrinkled. Her hair had slipped out of its bun to hang in a loose ponytail, a few strands completely free to dance around her face. There were purple smudges under her eyes, and the whites were red.

“Oh, hey,” she said, stepping out, rolling a suitcase behind her. “I was going to… freshen up before I told you I was home,” she admitted, moving to stick her key in the lock.

I couldn’t help but wonder if she wanted to clean up just because she wore her perfect demeanor like a shield… or if she wanted to look nice for me.

The latter was so steeped in wishful thinking that I immediately brushed it aside.

Before I could say anything, Blair pushed the door open and took half a step inside.

“What the hell?”

I wasn’t sure what the best way to ease her into this was, so I just jumped in.

“I was in bed when I heard a crash up here,” I told her. “So I decided to come and check to make sure you were okay.”