“You from around here?” It’s small talk. I’m interrogating her, not using torture or persuasion. No, I’m using the societal pressure of small talk.
I know what I look like. A goddamn bruiser. She’s nervous being in the same room with me. The little silky hairs on the back of her neck are probably standing up. That’s her instinct talking. The instinct that she’s in danger.
And it’s telling her the truth.
Unfortunately for her, society drills that instinct out of us.
Women, especially.
They’re trained from a young age to be polite. To shove down the evolutionary knowledge that she’s in the presence of a killer.
She unlocks the door with an antique brass key. “No, actually. Moved here a few years ago. I was passing through and fell in love with the town. And this house in particular. It has beautiful bones.”
“Beautiful bones. That sounds… bleak.”
A small smile. “It’s the opposite. Beautiful bones means there’s always a chance to rebuild. It means there’s something worthwhile underneath the rubble. Anyway, I passed through here about five years ago. I fell in love with the town and this house.”
The innocent hope in her tone is like a goddamned aphrodisiac.
I want to hear more of it.
The people who paid me want specific evidence related to her past, and her father. The night she fled with her mother must still be clear in her mind. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to burrow into that pretty little head to find it. It will be here, with her. I shouldn’t need torture to dig up old papers.
“What brought you all the way out here?” I set the duffle on the handscraped floor. Cream molding. Patterned wallpaper. The view through the window is exquisite, but not as beautiful as the dark-haired pixie-like woman behind me. I don’t look at her, hoping it will make her feel more at ease to answer my question.
“I was… adrift,” she says. “Lost for a while. I wanted a quiet life. A peaceful life.” She still sounds a little lost, and instinct urges me to dig deeper. It’s part of the job, I tell myself. Her father was a soldier who was killed by his crooked army men, who then framed him. Her mother took Marjorie on the run.
The pain she must have felt gives me pause, but I know I have to do this.
“Quiet is nice,” I say, still keeping my expression neutral as I turn to her. Watching her toil with her words, I find myself intrigued. “Peace is nice. I’m not sure what either of those really feel like.”
She’s lived a quiet life ever since her mother took her.
As long as I can find what I need, she’ll keep her quiet life.
Marjorie is the only person alive who could have the evidence I’m looking for. The men who hired me are concerned that it exists outside their control. They have no doubt she remembers the night they shot her father. She was there, even if she was a child. It’s not something you can easily forget, they think. But, like the evidence, it could be buried deep. Nothing more than a shadow in her memory. The mind has a way of protecting itself. People have a way of protecting themselves, too.
“Breakfast is at eight o’clock usually, but since you’re the only guest, I can move it if that works better for you.” She continues telling me about the schedule, the amenities. There’s even a goddamn bird watching journal that’s used by any guest, like an ornithology guest book. It’s so damn quaint it makes me itch. I don’t like probing into her secrets this way, it doesn’t feel right.
My orders are to find the evidence. To deceive her, if necessary.
I don’t see myself ever touching her in any way that would cause pain.
But I do want to touch her. My hands itch to discover the softness of her skin. The tension in her curls. I find myself moving closer, using stealth as if I’m going to attack. She smiles up at me, her expression uncertain. That instinct again.
“Well,” she says, “I think that’s everything.”
It should be the end, but she hands me the key to the room. I can’t stop myself from brushing my fingers against hers. Heat. Electricity. Desire. It sparks where my skin touches hers. It spreads throughout my entire body, making me burn.
Those Bambi eyes look up at me, and I’m gone. Dead. Over.
Her lips part, so plump and inviting that my cock throbs against my zipper.
“I hope you enjoy your stay,” she tells me softly before turning and leaving.
I let out a breath as I listen to her soft footfalls go down the stairs.
I’m fucked.
The lock on the bedroom door is flimsy. Easy to pick. Or someone could kick the door open, but I don’t think my pretty little innkeeper is going to do that. Still, I grab an antique-looking chair from the wall and prop it under the knob as a safeguard. A lifetime of danger has made me cautious. Moving through the room, I check for cameras or bugs.