Chapter 2

Calla's POV

My breath caught in my throat.

"Take your hand off the knob," a man's voice murmured. It was low, gentle, yet laced with undeniable, lethal intent. "Now, turn around. Slowly."

I raised my empty hands, turning inch by inch.

The man standing before me was in his thirties, wearing a tailored tweed suit. If you ignored the white dress shirt soaked in terrifying, high-velocity blood spatter, he looked like a Wall Street broker fresh off trading hours.

"You're not a burglar," I said, my voice dry as dust, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

"Good deduction," he tilted his head, the muzzle perfectly locked onto my forehead. "Turn around. Walk to the center of the living room. Slowly. Don't test me."

My brain went into overdrive. If he wanted me dead, he would've shot me in the kitchen. I knew how to handle guys like this: stall. Drag this out until Reeve's symposium ended.

"Listen, if you're planning to just walk out into the street like that, you're asking to get caught," I said, staying rooted to the spot, suddenly raising my voice.

His brow furrowed, his grip on the gun tightening. "Are you telling me what to do?"

"I'm trying to save your life!" I stared dead across at his collar. "Your shirt is soaked through. You walk out there, the cops will spot you in a second."

He paused. The cold steel was less than three inches from my nose.

"I can get you clean clothes," I took a deep breath, throwing my chips on the table. "Change, and you can walk right out the front door, no questions asked."

He stayed completely silent for three agonizing seconds.

"Go get them." He pulled the gun back slightly, tipping his chin. "No funny business."

Five minutes later, I tossed him one of Reeve's dark cashmere sweaters. He didn't even hesitate to strip off his bloody shirt right in front of me. His movements were methodical. He even took the time to meticulously fold the heavy, blood-drenched fabric into a perfect square.

He had just murdered someone, yet he didn't leak a single ounce of panic.

"Go sit on the couch. We need to talk," he pointed the grip of his gun toward the living room once he was dressed.

I purposely chose the furthest accent chair, legs pressed tightly together, fingers dug into my palms. He took the center of the sofa, leaning forward casually, like an HR rep conducting an interview.

"You're terrified of me, but you're trying very hard to hide it," he observed my white knuckles with genuine amusement. "That little performance downstairs—yelling about the blue cheese? Way more natural than what you're doing now. Tell me, how did you know?"

"Intuition," I clipped.

He suddenly slammed his hand onto the coffee table. The massive bang made me jolt, the gun immediately snapping back to aim at my chest.

"Liar," his eyes were instantly as cold as scalpels. "You froze at the sink for five solid seconds. Last chance. Tell me the truth."

"The smell," I finally broke, my voice betraying my tension. "The ocean breeze doesn't mask rust. Or the bleach you used to try and hide it. And... there were passive gravity blood drips on the floorboards."

"Perfect," he nodded, eyes filled with dark admiration as he lowered the gun. "You are much more observant than most women I've met. Knowing about gravity drips... That's exactly why I hate unexpected variables."

Wait.

My mind violently stitched the horrifying pieces together.

Reeve’s symposium had a break at 3 PM. What if he had come home early?!

Ice injected straight into my veins.

"Reeve..." I gasped, the name tearing from my throat. I leaped to my feet, sheer panic completely overriding my fear of the weapon. "What did you do to him?! Did you kill my husband?!"

His finger tightened on the trigger, but he didn't shoot. "Sit down."

His bark was like a physical blow, shoving me backward. I collapsed into the chair, trembling uncontrollably, hyperventilating as worst-case scenarios flashed behind my eyes.

"Yes, I killed someone." He admitted it openly, as casually as discussing the weather. Then, he delivered a line that made my blood run instantly cold. "And yes, the body is upstairs."

"No... no, oh my god, no..." I covered my mouth, tears finally spilling over as a suffocating agony clamped around my throat.

Watching my hysterical breakdown, the intruder blinked in mild surprise before a sick, mocking satisfaction crept into his eyes.

"Relax, Mrs. Ashcroft," he drawled, twirling the gun lazily around his index finger. His tone dropped to a chilling absolute zero. "I didn't expect you to play the devoted wife, waltzing in here and ruining my schedule with your little surprise. But believe me, murder was never on today's agenda."