Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

Flashes of memory. Blanks he couldn’t fill in. Images he’d never forget.

Is this how Phil had felt when the spray of bullets tore through him? No. Phil hadn’t had time to remember anything. No cherished memories. No moments of joy. Unlike Ben, Phil had never harmed anyone but himself. His soul had been free of guilt, and yet Ben had deprived him of the precious flashbacks that defined his life. So what had Phil felt? Pain. Sharp, life-draining pain. Then, death.

All Ben’s fault.

And Sophie. Beautiful, little Sophie. With the purest of souls, and not enough years behind her to have begun forming the priceless memories she deserved. At the very start of her young life. Gone in an instant. Had she been afraid? In pain? Had she called out for her daddy? Or had death come quickly?

If the gates of heaven were strewn with stars, then Sophie was the brightest star in the sky.

The daisies. Had he picked the daisies? Was it the eleventh yet? Or had it slipped by while he was inside a bottle? He’d never missed that date, not since the first one. He couldn’t see the calendar, couldn’t remember what day, what month, what year it was.

Dear God, why couldn’t he just die? Hell could be no worse than this.

“Martino.”

He heard the voice, but it was muted and very far away.

“Martino.” This time it was accompanied by thick hands around his neck, and a powerful jerk, yanking him up. “I come for money.”

The face swam in front of Ben’s drunken gaze. Jin Huang.

“No money,” he croaked out. “No girls. No work. No money.”

Jin Huang’s emotionless gaze flickered across the factory floor below. It was unnaturally still. No workers. No activity. No production.

No surprise. Xiao Long had pulled his girls from Martino’s place the day the government found out Martino was employing illegals.

“Take whatever you want,” Ben muttered into the desk. “Take it all. There’s nothing left.”

“Xiao Long not happy.”

“Tell him he’s welcome to kill me. I wish he would.”

“Good idea. He’d enjoy. But maybe he not come in time. Maybe you kill you first,” Jin Huang replied, his words as stilted as his English. “Or maybe Johnson kill you. Xiao. You. Johnson. All have reasons. No matter what, you die. Soon.”

Sloane felt physically ill as she opened the door to Wallace’s gallery and stepped inside to the tinkling of the bell.

Talking to her father had been a cinch compared to what she had to do now. And talking to Ben hadn’t happened. He’d been so out of it when she called, she’d given up and agreed to let her father try getting through to him.

But Wallace. Poor Wallace. This was going to be one of the hardest conversations Sloane had ever had.

Thankfully, his gallery was quiet, with just two or three patrons browsing around. One of Wallace’s assistants was helping them. When he saw Sloane, he held up his index finger in a “one minute” gesture, then excused himself from his potential customer and went into the back office.

When he returned, Wallace was with him. He was tan and relaxed, looking happier than Sloane had seen him in ages.

She was about to blow all that newfound joy to bits.

“Sloane, this is a pleasant surprise,” he greeted her. “Are you ready to select some paintings for the cottage?”

“I wish that’s why I was here,” Sloane replied soberly. “Unfortunately, it’s not. Can we please talk privately?”

Wallace’s smile vanished, and his forehead creased in concern. “Is it Ben? Did something happen over the weekend?”

“No, nothing like that.” Sloane’s gaze flickered to the rear of the gallery. “Is your office empty?”

“Yes. Come in. Let’s talk there.”

Once they were inside the office with the door shut, Wallace gestured for Sloane to take a seat. “What can I offer you—coffee? Water? Soda?”