Empire of Lies - Whitney G. Page 0,36

room. I also request that they extend her stay by a few days and set two aspirin, a tray of bagels, and a note from me on her nightstand in the morning. (It’s common fucking decency. It doesn’t mean anything.)

When I make it to my room, I turn the air conditioning on to the coldest setting. I open all the windows—letting in as much of the freezing night air as possible, and then I set the ceiling fan on high.

Taking off my clothes, I lay at the center of the mattress and shut my eyes for as long as I can bear it—hoping that for once, just once, sleep will come and stay for more than five hours.

Just once.

I drift off into a dream that feels like it’ll finally last a long time, but by the time my eyes flutter open, I look at my watch and realize that it’s been exactly five hours.

Fuck.

The flames of my past are still burning hot and bright, and I know they won’t stop until I finish that damn list. Until I can completely focus on putting it behind me.

I dress again and prepare to check out. As I’m walking to the elevator, my second cell phone buzzes in my pocket.

No one has this number yet, and I’ve installed software that prevents robo-calls.

Confused, I hold it up to my ear. “Yes?”

“Um, hi.” Meredith’s soft and raspy voice comes over the line. “It’s me, Meredith.”

What the fuck? “How the hell did you get this number, Meredith?”

“You opened your phone and texted the concierge at some point last night.” She sounds like she’s still in bed. “I have a photographic memory.”

I smile, impressed and completely caught off-guard. I never picked up on that while following her, so I mentally add that to my list of “Interesting observations about the Thatchwood Girl.” It can go right under “Sexy as hell without even trying,” “Unafraid of a little darkness,” and “Enjoys talking about books and authors for hours at a time.”

I rush her off the phone—shutting down any idea of meeting up with her again, and make sure my gun is loaded and concealed before stepping onto the elevator.

I’m supposed to spend today following a man who has an unfortunate criminal addiction, since I’m due to kill him in a matter of weeks, but I don’t drive to his job to stalk his routine. I don’t show up to the ice cream parlor where his family meets him in the afternoons, and I don’t hack into his personal computer when he “accidentally” leaves it in a locker at his gym.

Instead, I think about Meredith. How much I want her, how much I need to have her, at least one more time.

I try to let the thoughts remain thoughts, but before I know it, I’m using my own photographic memory and sending her an email.

Subject: One more date…

Michael

Now

Top Ten Reasons Why Meredith Thatchwood is Probably Still Alive (& Tips on How to Get Her Smoky Eye Wedding Picture Look)

If Meredith Thatchwood was a Regular, Ugly Missing Person and Not a Beautiful, Billionaire Heiress, No One Would Care

Fans Launch Petition for Gillian Weston, Author and Best Friend of Missing Thatchwood Heiress, to Release Her New Book; “Meredith was a FAN, too!”

Police Question Heiress’s Newlywed Husband Again; Officially Clear Him as a Suspect

‘Hopeful, yet very concerned’ in the search for Missing Billion-Dollar Heiress, Father Says

Officials Find Abandoned Car with Blood Stains, Meredith Thatchwood’s Locket Necklace, and Hair Strands in Trunk; Police to Test DNA

The mainstream media is far too fucking predictable. They run every major story with the exact same cycle: Breaking news and an outrage story, tons of hour to hour coverage, new angle of the story, even more hour to hour coverage. They run with this big story for as long as they can—a couple weeks at most, and right when it begins to lose steam, they pick up the next breaking news story.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It’s been two months since Meredith went missing, and her disappearance is slowly falling out of this vicious cycle—only mentioned by news stations when they’re desperate for clicks and want to examine “new angles” for the story. Occasionally, her name will resurface in the papers whenever her lying ass father wants to make a tear-filled appearance about how the cops aren’t doing enough to find her.

Honestly, if I didn’t know what I know, I’d feel the same. They’re completely incompetent and twenty steps behind what’s really happening, but that’s exactly where I need them