The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“That’s okay. I’ll just write Robert Day Daniels for the moment, and then we’ll come back to it a little later.”

“Yes, okay.” She smiles, pleased that I’m not pushing her for an exact name.

“What was drawn on his house?” I ask.

“One of those horrible devil stars.”

“I see. Tell me, what did the police do this time?”

“Nothing. They didn’t even come out here.”

“They’re very busy,” I reassure her as I write. “Tell me about the last time it happened.”

“The entire house was painted red.”

I glance up in surprise. “The entire house was red?”

“The whole street.”

Uneasiness sweeps over me. “That is weird.” I frown.

She leans in close so that only I can hear her. “Do you think it’s the devil?” she whispers.

“What?” I smile. “No, it’s probably just kids acting up,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, only Miles Media. I want you to publish this story so that the police will actually pay some attention. I’m getting scared that it’s something more sinister.”

I take her hand in mine. “Yes, I think we have enough to go forward with the story.”

“Oh, thank you, dear.” She holds my hand tightly.

“Is there anything else you can think of that may be relevant?” I ask.

“Just that I’m living in fear every night that the devil is coming back. My neighbors said to go and speak to them too.”

“Okay, great.” I hand her my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“Yes, I will.” She clutches the card.

I go down the street and interview seven more people, and the stories all correlate. I definitely have enough evidence to go forward. I go back to the office and type the story up and hand it in to Hayden. It feels good breaking news.

I sit at my desk and stare at my computer screen. It’s four o’clock on Monday, and I’m in a funk. Since I got back to New York late last night, I’ve had a bad case of the guilts. Even though I knew that Robbie and I were reaching our expiration date, I kind of feel like I sped it up and didn’t let it run its course. But then, on the other hand, we’d been stagnant for months, and if I took this job knowing he wasn’t coming with me . . . I think I subconsciously knew we were close to the end.

“The god is here,” Aaron whispers.

I glance up. “Who?”

“Tristan Miles,” he whispers.

I spy over the screening above my desk as he talks to the manager of the floor, Rebecca.

He’s wearing a pin-striped navy suit, his brown wavy hair is in just-fucked perfection, and he has this dreamy smile on his face as he talks. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen and huge dimples.

“She’s giggling like a schoolgirl.” Aaron frowns.

“He’s never on this level,” Molly says.

“What do you reckon he’s doing here?” Aaron whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.