The Dirty Series 2(136)

I take the elevator up to the penthouse and strip off my clothes. The heat of the water is relaxing, and I stand under the stream for twenty minutes before I can bring myself to get out and shave. I go with a similar outfit—dress slacks and a button-down—but this time I push the sleeves up to my elbows and leave the top button undone.

If Carolyn decides to come home early, I’m going to be waiting for her.

I’m not in her apartment thirty seconds when there’s a knock at the door.

A courier stands outside. “Carolyn Banks’ place?”

“Yes, but—”

He shoves an envelope into my hands and turns on his heel, typing something into a handheld device.

Okay.

I close the door. Where the hell am I going to put this thing? It’s fairly large, at least the size of a file folder, and it has some weight to it.

I flip it over to look at the address.

When I see where it’s from, my heart plummets to my feet. It’s from Italy. From a woman named Aida Russo. The same woman who answered the phone.

The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. Is this confirmation for some kind of trip? My heart hammers against my rib cage. I’m so damn curious that I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit here with it until 5:30.

I go into the living room and toss it onto the table. That’s when it becomes clear that the tape sealing one end of the envelope has been damaged in transit, because a sheaf of papers comes out nearly halfway.

I pick it up automatically to shuffle the papers back in place, but I can’t resist. I can’t fucking resist turning it over.

On the top sheet, there’s my name. And a picture of me.

It says “Investigative Report: Ace Kingsley.”

Holy fuck.





Chapter Thirty-Five





Carolyn



Two grueling days dealing with police reports and inventory replacements and having the front window glass newly installed, and all I can think about is what an asshole I was to Ace.

All I can think about is how I should have responded right way.

When I sign in to Rainflower Blue on Monday afternoon, I’m blown away by the traffic.

It’s still booming, and there are more threads than ever about Ace Kingsley.

And me.

Carolyn Banks dating a murderer?

There’s even a thread about what happened to the boutique.

If you ask me, she deserved it, writes an anonymous user about halfway down the thread. That’s what you get for dating someone who’s done such heinous things to women.

The farther down I scroll, the worse it gets. Theories about what happened to his wife, who is as of yet unnamed, which has to be some kind of miracle. Theories that he’s still married and is just on the run. Theories that the Italian government is running some kind of cover-up for him.

It turns my stomach.

This is how I’m making all my money, and it’s just fucking wrong.

I’m going to start by telling Ace everything—absolutely everything—and letting the chips fall where they fucking may.

For the first time, I can see it: that I deserve to lose him, and other good men, if this is the kind of life I’m going to lead, if I’m going to keep an open platform for witch hunts while I drag my heels on confirming it.

Jesus, why should I? That’s the real question. Why should I confirm or deny anything? If anyone wants to know my opinion on any kind of situation, they can ask me.

My God.

I text him with fingers that shake and hit the wrong keys.

Meet me at my place. 5:30?

It takes almost no time for him to reply.

Done.

Maybe it’s overboard, but I send him one last message:

I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to talk with you. Let’s figure this out.

There’s radio silence, and it makes me nervous as hell.

When my phone vibrates again forty-five minutes later, I snatch it up, sure that it’s Ace, sure that he just needed a little while to reply. He could have been in a meeting. He could have been doing anything.

But it’s not from Ace. It’s from Aida.

Results were delivered to your place minutes ago. They’ll be waiting for you.

Thanks.

I put my phone back down in its place near the register, trying not to frown too much and alarm anyone else in the store.

It’s odd that Aida wouldn’t have sent the information—whatever it is—to my apartment without confirming that it was actually placed into my hands, but maybe things are different in Italy. Gerard would never dream of it.

I shrug a little and shake it off. Oh, well. The likely scenario is that they slipped it under the door and it’ll be waiting for me when I return.

That just means I need to leave a little early.

At four-fifteen I tell Natalie I have some errands to run. She gives me a nervous nod.

“You don’t have to worry. I made sure the police are running rounds on the block all the time for at least the next couple of weeks. Plus, I’ve got Sara coming in to help you close.”