Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,50

to his face if he did it. But in return, he didn’t ask me where I allegedly hid Nate’s body.”

“Quid pro quo.” I sigh. “Fair’s fair. I have to get up and shower, otherwise I’m gonna be late for work. But I’ll think on this a little bit. I might have access to a little information if I play my cards right.”

And just like that, Will’s demeanor changes. “You’re being safe, aren’t you, Bubbles? This isn’t your war, you know? You don’t have to be here.”

“I’m not having this discussion with you again. Not right now. I’m hanging up. Be careful at work; if our murderer works at the docks, and you’re at the docks…”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I love you, Will. Be safe.”

“You know that’s not my name, right?”

“Shut up.” I roll my eyes. “Goodnight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Have fun at the sweet sixteen, Bubbles. Maybe you could join in and party with them.”

“I’m twenty-three years old, toolbag.”

“I know.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But you never had a sweet sixteen, so maybe tonight will be a good chance to live vicariously through those girls.”

“I’m good. Night, big brother.”

“Sweet dreams, little sister. I’ll be home later.”

I hang up and toss my phone aside, then, climbing off my bed, I make my way in to the shower and strip as I go.

This place sucks when compared to the general level of luxury that middle-class families know. But in comparison to our old apartment, the shower here rocks.

I turn it on full blast, turn the hot water up high, since my chat with Will has allowed my body to cool off after my workout, and stepping in, I close the curtain and move under the boiling spray. Timing myself, I allow ten minutes to wash my hair, shave my legs, and exfoliate my face. Then an additional twenty minutes to simply stand so the pulsing hot water massages my shoulder.

Thirty minutes after stepping in, I step out again with a mild case of guilt at the wasted water, but then I focus on my hair. Blow drying, styling, braiding, and curling the ends so I have a half up, half down look, with loose ends that gently bounce against my back.

I stand in a dark brown towel and work on my makeup. Foundation. Bronzer. Eyeliner. A little pencil in my brows. A little red on my lips. When I’m done with everything else, I take the tube of mascara and begin working the wand through my lashes.

I finish in the bathroom at a little past six and dash along the hall to my room, only for a loud knock at my front door to bring me to a skidding stop on wet feet. From rushed anticipation to a heart-thudding panic, I press my back to the wall and wait.

My eyes scan from one end of the hall to another; my mind instantly flicks to the butcher block in my kitchen, and the knives that line up in a shiny row. I’m naked, which means I have nothing but a damn towel to hurt an intruder with. The best I can hope for is to choke a guy, but to do that, I must get completely naked – and shit, call me a party-pooper, but that’s not really my thing.

“Miss Quinnton. It’s me, Ivan.”

My brows pull close in confusion.

“Hello? Mr. McGrady sent me.”

I don’t move a single inch. Not one single quarter of an inch.

“You’re an hour early!” I call out. “I’m not ready.”

“I have a gift for you, Miss Quinnton. From Mr. McGrady. If it would make you more comfortable, I can leave it on the stoop. But please, you can’t leave it out for long, or the rain will ruin it.”

With my back still pressed to the wall, and a hand holding my towel closed, I slide along my hall and dash into my bedroom. I was coming in here to search for a dress, for something pretty to wear on my date tonight, but instead, I snatch up a pair of jeans and work through the ache in my shoulder as I yank them on. I toss my towel, whip a button-up shirt from my closet, and pull that on too.

It would have been easier and faster to grab a hoodie, but that would mean undoing my hard work on my hair and makeup.

Rifling through the pile of things I dumped on my bed earlier, I snag my pocket knife, the very same knife that