Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(61)

The only thing I’ve been certain of since is that I have to watch my back. Be wary of strange things. Like deliverymen outside my door. For all I know, Sam knows exactly where I moved and is sending me another warning, because last night’s warning wasn’t quite clear enough.

Maybe it’s a severed head.

With a shudder, I stay frozen behind the curtain, thankful that he can’t see me, watching quietly as the stranger knocks again, louder this time. He waits another minute and then turns to leave, muttering under his breath something unintelligible.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Threat abandoned.

That is, until I see Tanner lumbering through the common area in his requisite plaid shorts and too-tight T-shirt. The guy quickly intercepts him, holding the package out. Tanner’s hand reaches out for the electronic signature machine.

Shit.

What if Tanner is nosy? What if he takes the box inside his apartment and opens it up? There’s no reasonable explanation for why a person would send me a human head.

I quickly set my gun on the floor and then dart out my apartment door and run toward them, just as the delivery guy is handing the box over to Tanner. “Hello!” I yell in a rush. “I think that’s for me!” Both of them turn to stare at me.

I yank the box out of Tanner’s hands before he has a chance to object. “Sorry, I just missed the door,” I offer to the middle-aged delivery guy, whose jaw is hanging open. With a glance down, I realize that I’m still in the white tank top—sans bra—and thong that I slept in.

Stripper or not, I should be embarrassed to be caught like this outside of work, but I’m too on edge right now. With my heart pounding inside my chest, I turn and hustle back into my apartment—fully aware of the view the deliveryman and Tanner are getting—before I slam the door shut behind me and hug the box to my chest.

My skin prickles. The box is cold. Like it’s been in refrigeration.

Severed heads need refrigeration.

“Damn Ginger and that f*cking movie!” I know it’s insane and highly improbable, and yet I can’t dislodge the thought now, as I walk with a sinking stomach and wobbly knees toward my dining table to set the parcel down. With my fingers balled up into tight fists, I stare at the simple, tall white box, adorned with a purple ribbon but displaying no other identifiable markings.

A head would fit nicely in there.

Maybe the real Charlie Rourke’s head?

Holding my breath, I rip open the top of the box and pull back the tissue paper.

And exhale noisily.

Flowers?

Someone sent me flowers?

My curiosity peaked and my heart saved from explosion, I reach inside and pull out a stunning bouquet in a plain glass vase. All kinds of flowers—at least a dozen different varieties. But they all have one thing in common: their color.

They’re all violet.

The exact bluish-purple hue of my eyes.

Few people know about my natural eye color. Only one person in Miami knows. Flutters stir inside my chest as I pull out the small card tucked within. The words are simple, the request clear:

Your secrets are safe with me. Please give me a chance—Cain

I had wondered if Cain noticed that my eyes were not truly brown that day at my old apartment. It would be hard not to, but then again, he is a guy and most guys don’t notice basic details like eye color. Cain obviously had, but he never uttered a word.

Please give me a chance . . . “I wish I could,” I whisper, that painful lump forming in my throat again as I let my fingers rub the velvety petals.

■ ■ ■

If I wait any longer, Ginger will be at my door for coffee.

I have to leave now.

I shut the door of my apartment for the last time and drop the key in through the mailbox slot. Tanner will find it when they figure out that I’m gone. Quickly and quietly wheeling my suitcase down the path, I make my way out the gate and to my SUV, which I’ll be selling at a dealership fifteen minutes away after I pull all my money from the bank.

With my hands gripping the steering wheel, I take a few minutes to stare at the white stucco of the building for the last time, recalling Cain’s gorgeous form pacing around this very parking lot only three weeks ago. Glancing down at the flowers on my passenger side, which I can’t bear to abandon, I feel the hot tears begin streaming down my cheeks.

I know leaving is the right decision. I do.

And yet each step is taking every ounce of willpower that I have.





chapter twenty-one


■ ■ ■

CAIN

“Ronald Sullivan. Forty-two. No wife, no kids. Assault charge back in ’95 that was dropped. Suspected of selling narcotics but hasn’t been nailed with anything. I’ll fax through his picture so you can validate it. I have his address, too, if you want it. He lives in an apartment off Twenty-third.”

Oh, Charlie. What did you get yourself into? “As always, you’re invaluable, John.”

“And you are single-handedly funding my retirement villa in Tahiti. Just don’t tell the witches of Eastwick.” I have to pull my phone from my ear as John’s boisterous laugh blasts through.

“I have no reason to talk to your ex-wives, John. Unless it’s about how big of a shmuck you are.”

Another round of laughter sounds as my ribbing rolls off John’s sturdy back. “Is this all about the girl?”