Page 6 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

But I only get her voicemail.

I call again, pressing the phone so hard to my ear the speaker digs into the sensitive cartilage.

Voicemail again.

“Ugh. Come on, sis.”

I try a third time, my jaw clenched so tight my molars protest with sharp stabbing pains.

Her recorded voice fills my ear and the polished, professional tone she uses for work makes knots of fear twist behind my ribs so hard I gasp. "You've reached Raine Vale. Please leave a message."

“Hey Raine. I need you to call me, okay? It’s an emergency. I’m in trouble.” I leave it at that. What else can I say? Hey, Raine. Quick update for when you get this. I watched a man get murdered behind the shop tonight and Nikolai was standing there like he was checking inventory. By the way, think you can jump in your rich boss’s plane and come mist the orchids for me? Okay, miss you. Call me back.

Yeah, no. I pocket my cellphone and stay behind the shelf until my legs stop shaking. Until my breath evens out into something that resembles a pattern instead of the ragged, hiccupping gasps that have been coming out of me for the past five minutes. The convenience store clerk keeps glancing at me over the register, his eyebrows raised. I’ve got about forty-five seconds before he comes over here. A minute tops.

I look at the paper in my hand, but I can’t seem to bring myself to unfold it. I’m not a psychic or anything but my gut says he died for what is written on this paper. I can’t bring myself to read it right now, but I don’t want to throw it away either.

Since my jeans don’t have pockets—a real crime against humanity—I shove the paper into my boot where it presses against my ankle, the edge digging into the skin above my sock.

I wipe my eyes and force myself to stand tall despite the bone-deep exhaustion that follows a full-body panic.

Using my hair as a shield, I let the silver stream hang around my face as I walk out into the Chicago night. The cold wraps around me. A couple walks past me laughing about something, their breath visible between them, and the normalcy of it is so far from where I am right now that they might as well be on a different planet.

I look up in time to see the two thugs hunting me head down a side street.

Shit. I hook around the corner in the opposite direction and head for the only other place I know to go.

Two

Cora

Well, today didn’t go according to plan.

Someone must be screwing with my stars because my horoscope swore I was going to have the best week of my life. Things were changing and I would have untold fortunes landing in my lap.

Bunch of horse shit! I had everything lined up for a slow weekend of illustrating and a little self-love time in the bathtub with some wine to go with my fantastic star reading.

There was not one single line mentioning running for my life.

Yet, here I am.

My throat went bone dry the second I pushed through the front door of the police station fifteen minutes ago. I’ve spent every last minute since wondering if I’ve made yet another mistake.

It smells like three-day-old coffee and floor wax so strong it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I mentally reach for the dead man's paper crushed in my boot and remind myself I’m here because I need to do the right thing.

And no one will kill me as long as I’m here. As options go, it’s the best I have available.

Besides, this is what normal people do. Someone gets murdered behind your flower shop, you go to the police.

The officer at the front desk barely glanced up from his computer when I told him I had a murder to report. A detective passing by pulled me in here.

I straighten my hair and try to erase all evidence of panic from my face just as the door to the waiting room opens and a detective walks back in.

“You doin’ okay, sweetie?” He sets a styrofoam cup in front of me. I take the water and wash back the acid that’s burned the back of my throat since I heard the first gunshot.

“Thank you.” I tuck my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. “I’m okay, but not the guy behind my flower shop. I assume you checked out my story since you were gone so long, right?”

The detective’s brow rises at the bite of frustration in my tone, but I can’t find it in me to care.