Page 15

Christophe spins it right back so he can watch Winnie.

I flick through the screens on my phone until I find her. I need to know there’re eyes on my little hummingbird and there’s no chance she can just fly away.

“Lapin cleaned up last night?”

“That’s what Eddie said.”

The man himself waltzes in and sprawls in the chair next to me. “She did. Nice and tidy. Pretty sure she reduced the traceable body count by at least half. What the fuck went down last night?”

“You really want to know?” I ask, knowing full well his answer.

“For the love of God, no. No details.”

“But—”

“Nothing I don’t need to know, you know the deal.”

We do. We’re well versed in only telling him the parts he needs to do his job, and he does it well, so… there’s no need to fuck with a solid system.

“Alain thought he could take what’s mine. That’s no longer his position,” Christophe says flatly.

“No. That’s currently flat on his back at the morgue, isn’t it?” Both hands push the iron-black locks back to the base of Eddie’s skull, gathering them into an efficient tail. He winds a band around it two times, then a third. Then he leans back and folds his hands placing them low in his lap.

Christophe’s mask of indifference breaks, his mouth tipping up on one side as he lazily lifts a shoulder.

“What’d he say about the file before the blade in his neck made talking an issue?” Eddie ignores the phone buzzing in his pocket and stares at Christophe expectantly.

“What do you mean? He was shot.”

The other men share a look like they’re in on some secret that I’m not privy to.

Eddie’s gaze slides to me while he maintains his physical focus on Christophe. He dips his chin saying simply, “He was.”

I check the CCTV on my phone and then hold it face down on my thigh, my leg bouncing. Unlike Eddie, I hate not having all the details. “That didn’t kill him? He was sprawled in his chair, he looked lifeless. There was blood everywhere.”

“Most of that was superficial,” Christophe explains. “The mysterious unnamed shooter clipped him, sure, but most of that blood was from shattered glass. The bastard used Winnie to pull himself back to his feet and then had the fucking nerve to try to leave with her.” His gaze flicks to Eddie before he shrugs nonchalantly and continues, keeping his recounting of events as generic as possible. “He was an old man, not in very good shape, you know? I had no idea that his balance was so bad—maybe he had some vertigo? But apparently, he fell down the stairs. Tragically, he ended up with my father’s blade protruding from his neck.”

Eddie purses his lips and nods. “Now that we have that ironed out⁠—”

“Nothing is fucking ironed,” I tell him before turning to Christophe. “And your father’s knife? Neither of you think that’s going to be a problem?” I should be glad to have the focus at least partially off of Truie, but holes don’t magically appear in the abdomens of stabbing victims. She’s not off the chopping block yet.

“The knife was never recovered after Alexandre’s death. Obviously the wrong man was framed, blah blah blah, and the real killer came back to hit Alain. Again, we’re good. Moving on.” Eddie pulls his tablet from his bag and consults his notes there. Must be nice to be so fucking sure of shit.

“Jesus, Alain had his brother killed⁠—”

“But Alain did not do the actual deed. That man wouldn’t get his hands dirty when there are so many others willing to do that shit for him⁠—”

“To save their own ass,” Christophe finishes the line of thought. “Which brings us back to the file, right?”

“So it would seem.”

Christ. What the actual fuck with these two?

“And that’s it? Just… that’s…” I raise my hands, in the universal what the fuck gesture, knee still bouncing, energy spinning, and my phone goes flying. It lands screen side up between my chair and Eddie’s. He swoops down and picks it up before I have a chance. “Give it.” I sound like a fucking kid on the school grounds who wants his toy back.

He tips the screen toward him, and in the brief flash I have of it, I can see Truie sitting up in my bed staring at the camera. The thin t-shirt she has on is over-sized but twisted tight and hides nothing.

I shoot to my feet and swipe the phone from his grasp, pocketing it.