Page 16 of Depraved

The stranger plucks my phone from my chilled fingers and settles down in the empty chair across from me.

I have no idea who he is. A touch of grey at his temples lightens his otherwise black hair, and his olive skin is slightly weathered with early signs of aging. He’s rakishly attractive, but his nose looks like it’s been broken a few times.

“Act like we’re old friends, Miss Taylor,” he commands, his voice lightly accented. He sounds Italian.

“Who are you?” I manage to choke out the question when I want it to be a sharp demand.

“What matters is who you are,” he replies smoothly, tucking my phone into his pocket.

I can’t call Rand for help.

I could scream, but this man knows my real identity. He could compromise my new life.

He’s not going to hurt me in the middle of a café. We’re surrounded by tourists in the center of town. There’s no way he could make a move against me without getting arrested.

“I’m here on behalf of my family,” the man continues, as though he’s oblivious to my quiet terror.

He takes out some folded papers. Moving with deft precision, he smooths the creases and lays the damning evidence on the table between us.

It’s a printed article about the flood that killed my parents.

My blood goes cold.

He lifts the paper, revealing a second one beneath it. A younger version of me is printed in black and white. I’m wearing a leotard and fluffy tutu, my dancer’s form perfect as I stand frozen en pointe.

It’s a photo from a small feature in my local paper; it was published before I was placed in foster care.

“What do you want from me?” I meet his black gaze with pleading eyes.

Maybe he’s here to blackmail me. Not that I have any money.

It doesn’t make sense, but here he is, sitting in front of me with clear knowledge of my past.

My throat closes when he flips the page to reveal a third article: arson at my foster home. Evidence of a murder in the burned stables. Three children missing, including a teenage girl.

Karolina Taylor.

“I want revenge,” he answers coolly.

My mind scrambles. Does he know Carter or Brandon?

Both boys ended up in foster care because they didn’t have family willing to take them in. This man is too old to be their childhood friend.

“How do you know?” I whisper.

“I found you through Brandon.”

My heart stops.

This man knows I murdered my first love. After all these years, he’s here to make me pay for what I did.

“I didn’t mean to.”

It’s the same pathetic excuse I tell myself when I can’t sleep at night.

“Whatever you intended doesn’t matter,” the stranger drawls.

“Please. I don’t have any money, if that’s what this is about. I don’t have anything to offer you.”