TWENTY
CRIMINAL MISCHIEF IN THE THIRD DEGREE
SERA
It was inexplicable, really. I’d been dreading this wedding for months, and yet, through a series of weird, fucked up, very disturbing events, I’d ended up actually enjoying some of it.
Gareth was still prowling around the lobby, searching for Fix, when we snuck back into the hotel. We slipped in through an open side door, hoping to avoid the reception, which was still in full swing, if you could call dull conversation over quiet classical music full swing. Gareth spied us, bee-lining straight for us, his index finger already extended in a very accusatory manner, mouth pulled down at the corners in a furious grimace.
We fast-walked in the direction of the stairs, but he intercepted us, cutting us off at the pass. “Do you have any idea what kind of penalty willful destruction of property carries in this state, asshole?” he snapped at Fix.
Fix grinned at him. “Nope. Don’t care.”
“It’s classified as criminal mischief in the third degree, you fucker.”
“Sounds scary.”
“You’re going to jail for six months at least!” Gareth spat the words, a giant vein throbbing in his neck, his face a frightening shade of crimson, and I couldn’t leash the surge of laughter that burst out of my mouth.
“Do you have any proof that Fix pissed in your car, Gareth?”
“I don’t need proof. The bastard hasn’t denied it!”
I turned to Fix. “Felix, did you urinate in this fine gentleman’s vehicle?”
“Me? Lord, no. I’d never do such a thing.”
Somehow, both of us had adopted British accents, which made absolutely no sense, and only made it harder to keep a straight face.
“You think this is funny? You’re going to regret fucking with me, Marcosa. I promise you that. And you!” Gareth stabbed his index finger into my shoulder. “You’re fucking insane. I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d bring a guy like this to Amy’s wedding. You’re damaged goods. I dodged a fucking bullet when I—” He was moving to jab me with his finger again, but Fix moved like lightning, snatching hold of his index, stepping between us.
“Should I let him apologize?” Fix ground out. His voice was layered with anger, so deep it made my heart stutter.
“Gareth never was very good at apologies,” I said softly. It was the truth. Even after I’d walked in on him and fucking that blond in his office, he hadn’t once said he was sorry. He’d blamed me for not holding his attention. He’d said it was my fault for not making an effort to be more interesting.
“Got it.” Fix’s hand snapped back in a flash, and something else snapped right along with it…
Gareth’s finger.
His howl tore through the hotel lobby, yet no one came running to find out what was wrong. Not even Arianna. “You ever touch her again, I won’t just break your remaining fingers. I’ll break your fucking dick in two, and I’ll feed it to the dogs. Now disappear. Right fucking now.”
Gareth’s anger shone out of his eyes like twin beams of pure hatred. “You’re gonna—”
Fix took another step forward, and Gareth shut the hell up. He held his hand to his chest, clutching at it, backing away. He turned and stormed back into the wedding reception, hollering for Arianna at the top of his lungs, and I watched him go without the slightest flicker of remorse. Fix wouldn’t have done a thing if I’d asked him to stand down, but the humiliation and the embarrassment Gareth had put me through last year, not to mention the heartache…
I’d thought I loved him. I’d thought he and I were going to be together forever. I shivered out of that thought, thanking my lucky stars. Whatever Gareth said, it was me who’d actually dodged the bullet. “We’d better get the hell out of here,” I said. “Amy’s probably drunk by now. I don’t want her to try and murder me the next time I see her, though.”
“I haven’t even met her yet,” Fix mused.
“You can come to her second wedding in a couple of years,” I told him. “This one’s bound to fail.” I attempted to head up the stairs, but Fix took hold of me by the wrist. He pressed something into my hand: a crumpled yellow valet ticket.
“Why don’t you give this to the bellman and have him get the truck? I can grab our bags and be down here in a couple of minutes.”
“Sure.” I’d already tidied my stuff away into my rolling suitcase this morning, so there was nothing laying out that he’d have to tidy away for me. Fix took the stairs three at a time, disappearing around the sweeping staircase. Moments later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Fix’s truck, battling with my conscience. I couldn’t just leave without saying anything to Amy. She’d be hurt. Worse, she’d be angry, which was understandable given that Fix and I had distressed a number of her wedding guests with our profane conversation, Fix had potentially ruined some leather car interior, we’d vanished to fuck in a field, and then Fix had broken someone’s finger.
When I thought about it, Amy was going to be furious no matter what. But if I didn’t even leave her a note or something before bailing? God, she’d skin me alive. I needed a pen and paper. I could go back into the lobby, but then I risked seeing Gareth again, and that wasn’t something I could deal with. Fix probably had something I could write on. There was bound to be some paper in here somewhere. I tried the glove box, expecting it to be locked, but the drawer dropped down, and I was rewarded with a multitude of papers and receipts stuffed inside. Perfect. Better to use an empty envelope. Those things always ended up floating around people’s cars for ages before they got thrown out. Grabbing the first envelope I laid my hand on, I went about searching for a pen, but couldn’t—
Wait.
I cocked my head, looking down at the brown envelope that was now resting in my lap. It had been folded in two to fit inside the glove box, but it had opened out once I’d removed it. There, on the front of the envelope, written in thick, black sharpie, was a name.
My name.
Sera Lafferty.
Why was my name written on the envelope? What…what possible reason could Fix have for keeping an envelope with my name on it in his glove box? A thousand frantic thoughts collided in my head at once.
Oh…
Oh, shit.
These were the contingency plans he’d made after I’d watched him kill Franz? It was the only thing that made sense. He’d created a dossier on me in case he thought I’d changed my mind and I was going to go to the police. My blood was like ice, pumping slowly through my heart, gradually freezing me bit by bit. With shaking, unsteady hands, I untucked the envelope’s flap and I took out the papers inside.
My brain ceased to function.
What was I looking at? It made no sense. These weren’t contingency plans at all. At least not contingency plans made because of what I’d seen go down in that auto shop. There were photos of me, at least eight of them, none of them really recent. Candid stills of me getting into my car, leaving the office. Me, out running through the park three blocks from my apartment. Me, out to lunch with my Sadie. More and more of them, all taken without my knowledge. What did this mean? Why the hell would Fix have shots of me like this lying around in his car? My panic levels were rose dramatically as I put the photos aside and picked up a sheaf of paper. On it, a complete breakdown of my daily routine back in Seattle. The following sheet was a copy of the detailed itinerary I’d created for my road trip to the wedding—the one I’d emailed to Amy, letting her know exactly how long I’d be on the road, where I’d be stopping, and for how long.
The very last sheet of paper was a photocopy of a yellowed document marked with a coffee ring. My birth certificate, bearing my full name: Seraphim Alicia Rose Lafferty. A shockwave detonated in my head as I scanned the document; ever since I’d run into Fix, he’d used a pet name with me. He’d called me Angel, over and over again, and it had seemed like a coincidence. Such a weird, fluke of a thing. My mother hadn’t been religious, but she’d liked the idea of guardian angels, watching over us, keeping us all safe. She’d called me Seraphim because she’d thought it sounded pretty, but I’d hated it. I’d shortened it as soon as I could legally fill out the paperwork, and all of my ID, my credit cards, everything…it had all been changed to Sera.
It was all so clear now. His nickname for me hadn’t been a coincidence at all. This was why Fix had started calling me Angel. Because he’d done his research on me, just like he’d done his research on Franz Halford. The photos Fix had shown me of Franz’s victim had come straight out of a brown envelope, identical to the one I was holding in my hands.
God.
Oh…oh my god.
My pulse was a raging, demented, thundering drumbeat. My vision had tilted, and I could no longer see straight. I knew what this meant now. I knew, and I was too surprised to run. I was too surprised to do anything but sit there with the evidence all over my lap as I tried not to pass out. I knew the driver’s side door opened, and I knew Fix climbed into the car, but I was too numb to process the information. I just…what? What the fuck had just happened?
I turned, swiveling the entire top half of my body so that I was facing Fix. I held up one of the photos—a particularly nice shot of me laughing, walking with Sadie down a busy street—and the smile slipped from Fix’s face. His whole demeanor changed in the blink of an eye. It was the first time h
“Who?” I demanded. “You owe me that much at least.” My voice was rough, broken, shattered… and my entire world right along with it.
I could tell by the expression on his face.
It was real.
It was true.
It was more than I could bear.
“Who the fuck hired you to kill me, Fix?!”