Reaping Havoc: Kiara Blake Book 1

by Kinsley Burke

  “Kiara? You’re here?” Aunt Kate asked. “Did you see my car?”

  The blush on her too pale cheeks looked clownish, and the circus wasn’t on her resume. Concussion symptoms? I searched for dilated pupils. “I was with you during the accident.”

  “Oh, right. Have you met Phillip?”

  Memory loss. Doctor couldn’t wait. She needed help.

  “We’ve met,” I said. “Hey, now the car’s taken care of, how about you get checked out at the—”

  “I’m Rick.” Rick stepped forward. The gaze of his eyes started at the tips of my boots and worked their way up to my chest. Where they stopped. “It’s a pleasure meeting someone as lovely as you.”

  Dang, no public transportation bus taken yet I still scored a leech. Lucky me. My eyes narrowed, but he’d have to even glance at my face to notice. He didn’t. And leeching gaze wasn’t enough for this man. Oh, no. A pudgy hand that I questioned the whereabouts of shot out, the back of it matted in dark hair. Sharp contrast to the stark white cuff of his dress shirt. The cuff was clipped together by a gold cuff link forming the letter J. His hand edged forward. I stepped back.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Aunt Kate and grabbed her arm. “As soon as I figure out how.”

  “A driver’s picking me up.” Phillip said. “I will take you to wherever you need.”

  Mind debated options and landed on limited. “Aunt Kate needs to either go to a hospital or home, but she’ll need a car—”

  “We have a loaner,” Rick said.

  “What?” Phillip asked.

  Rick’s face was smiling; Phillip’s mouth was hardened. Yeah, and something was off. Really off—and not just Rick’s gaze. Which hadn't strayed from my chest. But Limited Choices had narrowed down to Leech’s loaner or Potential Control Freak’s free ride.

  “They’ll ride with me,” Phillip said.

  “We’ll take it.” I said.

  Another intense look from Phillip shot my way, and again, a sensation nagged as if I missed a detail… or three.

  “You’ll ride with me.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Thank you, but no. We’ll take the loaner.”

  “Perfect,” Rick turned to the counter. “Go get the loaner.”

  “What loaner?” Chuckling Guy asked.

  “The loaner.”

  “‘K.”

  Minutes later, a sleek Town Car pulled up in the pothole-ridden lot, and Gut didn’t need to inform me that wasn’t our loaner. This vehicle blended in the surroundings as well as the Bentley. Gut was validated two seconds later when a charming smile tugged on Phillip’s lips. Aunt Kate’s hands were drawn up, and with a grand gesture, he bowed over them to give delicate pecks. “Until next time.”

  Slick. Too slick. I didn’t trust slick. Mr. Distinguished Gentleman/Potential Control Freak/Phillip was Up To No Good. I’d known the man for an hour, and already he had multiple names, but one thing was certain: Phillip Thornton was not trustworthy. Unfortunately, no one had included Aunt Kate on that monumental decision. She gawked starry-eyed at her hands and giggled.

  Giggled.

  Mental confusion. Nothing at all resembled an M or a D listed after my name—especially not combined—but the woman had a concussion. I called it. The first joyride we were taking in this loaner was to the hospital. It wasn’t until the taillights of Mr. Multiple Names were no more than a small speck down the street that I realized the severity of the situation. “What are you doing?”

  Aunt Kate hovered over a trashcan. “Phillip gave me his phone number.”

  “Oh, okay?”

  “He’s the one.”

  Five slips of paper drifted into the open bin. Five phone numbers were gone. Only one slip of paper remained. Phillip’s. What the heck had this Phillip guy done to my aunt? The blast of a car horn cut off my turbulent thoughts, and I peeked out the window.

  “Aunt Kate, your HOA will kick you out before the week’s over,” I said, after appraising the new view.

  Her red lips finally formed a genuine smile. “But it’ll be in style.”

  A black Kia Soul decked out in bright yellow trim bumped over the potholes and up to the door. The window tint, dark. Twenty-inch custom rims surrounded by low-profile tires, large. The audio system pumping out bass, loud.

  Well, at least we would no longer stick out in the neighborhood.

  Chapter Twenty

  Escaping Maude’s office the next morning was relief. Leaving behind Miss Prim was bliss. If that busybody matchmaking know-it-all ghost hadn’t yet realized she’d been ditched, that’d be fabulous. In fact, I hoped she’d lost her voice while scolding my currently empty reception chair and couldn’t so much as say goodbye on her way out the door. By not being there, I was going to miss the golden silence that eventually arrived after her voice gave out from long-winded rants. Only for so long could she lecture about my performance on the date she’d scheduled for me with Wilcox. You know, the date I hadn’t realized I had until Wilcox showed?

  But wait a second, I wasn’t at the office, and silence was very golden from where I stood. Besides, who was I kidding? She’d still be seated in the reception chair at midnight singing Wilcox’s virtues and scolding my lack of understanding good quality men. Her words.

  Murder a ghost was still on my to-do list.

  But to be honest, the silence wasn’t exactly pleasant from my standing location. City streets tended to generate a lot of noise. Hopefully this particular road generated one Brittany Fellows.

  My background check on Brittany had been thorough, and I was certain she wasn’t another pretending-to-have-money con artist sliding in under my radar. I had learned the basics: thirty-one, five-foot-six, dark hair, dark skin, Yale graduate (double checked), father a bigwig in the steel industry (triple checked), worked in public relations (currently loitering outside her place of employment, so check). Now I only needed her likes: favorite color, food preferences, and if I was lucky, catch her eyeing some passing guy so I had an idea of what generated her initial attraction: tall, short, lanky, muscular, skin color. Anything that could be cross-referenced in my database with Maude’s existing male clients. Seriously, stalking was a tiresome task. But Checking Account liked paychecks, and Checking Account was boss.

  After Maude, of course.

  Lunchtime was in full swing, and the pedestrian traffic was moving at a steady flow. I had zero excuses to visit a PR firm. Stressed brain had fried any potential plans of subterfuge. So instead, I stood in the plaza to a cluster of buildings and prayed like hell the sandwich shop on the corner was Brittany’s break time destination. If I were lucky, her walk to lunch would be with a friend so I could score an eavesdropped conversation. Being really, really lucky, meant the eavesdropped conversation would provide tons of insight into one Brittany Ann Fellows.

  But first, she needed to leave the dang building. Life experience had noted two main groups of lunch people: Early Birds who took off at eleven, and Regulars who scheduled their refueling needs at High Noon.

  According to Cell Phone, the time was eleven forty-five, and I pegged Brittany as a Regular. Her absence from the exterior of her work building during the eleven o’clock hour being my heads-up. But then, she could be an Early Bird holed up at a desk stories above my head eating a homemade sandwich.

  Nope. Not happening. Head shook hard enough at the thought to startle a pigeon. I relaxed in my out-of-the-way perch on a low wall and waited. Brittany would show. Faith was my new best friend. Hadley would understand.

  Sweat dripping underneath the collar of my leather jacket caused my neck to itch. For once, the pendant wasn’t the hottest item worn. Jacket and the new September sun, which seemed no different than the late August sun, were declared sworn enemies. The friendly entrance to the building nearest me beckoned. It proclaimed itself Switzerland, and the air surrounding its exterior doors shimmered in cool waves from the air conditioning blasting inside. I was in love.

  Only one business name adorned the building
facade. DrydenMercer. Very familiar, but I couldn’t place why. Combined last names often meant law firms, yet many of those firms had a gazillion partner names cluttering their doors. With only a Dryden and a Mercer, my guess was they offered anything but legal as their service.

  A loud clap of thunder echoed off the white lettering. The sound was guttural, and I looked straight up into blue sky with a fluff of white. No gray was in sight. Replace thunder with growl? Yeah, that would work. Sound defying culprit was spotted sitting on the ground, nowhere near the clear sky. The ghost had been ditched, but there’d been no luck with the beast, and he was wreaking havoc in the walkway. Chasing a butterfly, of all things.

  Hellhound may have been invisible, but his flames were too dang hot to not be felt. Human yelps, screams, stumbles, and dropped purses trailed the darting butterfly and its stalker. The butterfly zigzagged around the plaza as if its life depended on it. Which it probably did.

  The duo swerved near me in a blaze of fire and flutters. Damn, I needed a leash. And a way to make said leash work. Technically, Hellhound resided on another plane of existence, leaving me with a ton of questions: Could a leash pierce the veil? Was it possible for a collar to be wrapped around Hellhound’s neck? Were fireproof collars flame retardant enough to defy the blazes of Hell?

  So many questions. Tristan questions. Speaking of…

  New Target had proven my need for more training by getting my act together before energy kicked my ass. Nightmares had left me dripping in sweat from how close I’d been to dead. Hadley would get me out of the contract, but I still had one more ghost to nab before freedom. And I needed help.

  Mental note was made and flagged with priority status to text Tristan. Additional training required. But as for now? Currently, I had to contend with a beast from Hell playing with his food. I stomped my foot.

  Yeah. Mature. I know. But yelling at an invisible hellhound in a public location led only to the crazy house. Still, I’d tried. Not that the smack of my foot against ground had gained his attention. Hellhound remained blissfully deaf, or ignorant, or defiant, or—to my displeasure—all of the above, but the surrounding pigeons crowding my stakeout had noticed. They propelled into air with wings frantically flapping against pudgy bodies.

  Dang, pigeons apparently ate well. And ranked higher than butterflies on the food chain because Hellhound dismissed his prey and took off after the fleeing birds. Couldn’t blame him. The butterfly was like the vegan entree menu selection, and now Hellhound chased steak.

  More yelps, screams, stumbles, and dropped purses followed the fluttering commotion. I refrained from another foot stomping and checked the time on my cell phone.

  Eleven fifty-two.

  Father Time’s arthritis was acting up. I tapped a foot. People watched. Another glance at my phone.

  Eleven fifty-five.

  Hellhound returned minus the birds. There may or may not have been a feather sticking out of his mouth. Couldn’t tell. He plopped down at my feet and out rolled his massive tongue while panting from the exertion. The terrified screams from the invisible attack of terror had died, and the pedestrian traffic once again flowed.

  Eleven fifty-seven.

  The same white block letters of DrydenMercer still stared. They taunted in their familiarity and nagged, so I did a quick Google on my phone. Nope, not law. Accounting. A public accounting firm. I only knew one person who worked in public accounting. LinkedIn gave me the answer I sought: Lacey Briggs, Senior Accountant, DrydenMercer. Vague memories surfaced of her and my father discussing her place of employment at my mother’s dinner table before vodka had blackened out details.

  As for Lacey herself, communication silence had existed since her bridesmaids’ dinner, and I waited daily with bated breath for the text from my mother declaring me out of the wedding. I relished the thought of the displeased rants arriving with the text. Five days since the dinner, so any day now. I’d already forgone a week’s worth of groceries in order to splurge on a decent bottle of champagne. Just one little text was all, and then the cork would pop.

  While the waiting was excruciating, the text was a given. As Lacey had sat in her chair that night dripping in marinara sauce, her flushed face had turned my way. But she hadn’t looked at me. Oh, no. The red in her irises matching the color on her cheeks couldn’t be described as looking. She glared. An evil glare. Although I had to admit, I found it was hard to take burning eyes peeking out through pasta noodles seriously. Still, the fact remained, the altered evening attire was somehow my fault. And she didn’t even know my hellhound had been responsible. Yet as she picked noodles off her three-hundred dollar blouse—she had made certain everyone down to the busboy knew the cost—she had said to me through clenched teeth, “I hope you’re happy.”

  I actually had been, but no way in hell I’d have admitted to it as five heads each bearing a set of Arctic cold eyes had swiveled to face me. The eighth chair occupant at the table had eyes squeezed shut, which had done nothing to block the tears from streaming down past her lids. Laughter had poured out of Miss Prim’s mouth for so long, it became contagious. So I had bitten my lip hard to keep Mouth firmly shut and did the only thing one could possibly do in that situation: ordered more wine.

  Now I stood within feet of the evil witch—still wasn’t ruling out devil. I’d yet to meet him, after all. But as unintentional as my proximity to Lacey was, it didn’t change facts. Lacey Briggs currently vied with Satan for being last on my list of people to see. Well, if they weren’t one and the same. Regardless, as long as she stayed inside the building, while I was outside here, life would be pretty darn good. Lacey had her fabulous receptionist to brew another pot of that fabulous coffee. I was certain the java contained the perfect blend of roasted beans. Lacey could then spend the afternoon listening to her fabulous receptionist weep over the missing boyfriend.

  The missing boyfriend.

  Logan.

  Right. At least, I was ninety-nine point nine, nine percent certain it was Logan Bradley. Lacey needed to get her sorry butt out of the office suite and spend a nice long lunch choking on salami over at the sandwich shop because a fabulous receptionist who brewed a fabulous pot of coffee had an appointment with me. The fact the meeting had not yet been scheduled on her calendar was a minor technicality.

  Feet moved. To be honest, I wasn’t certain if Feet moved so quickly because the building air conditioner still beckoned, or because hello? Three days left. Even with Father Time’s unpredictable arthritis, my days were numbered. Lacey Briggs would not be an obstacle to my research. Because New Target had been pure luck. Logan, I’d have to actually locate, and I'd made a crap job of it thus far. Hadley had been spot-on with the searching for his killer. If I were to meet my untimely death, nothing would give me greater pleasure than tormenting my murderer for the rest of his—or her—days. Yeah, I was sadistic. But we were talking about murder.

  It had to be a Health-Tech Systems guy because… One: There was no other angle to pursue. Two: I had zero, zilch, nada time to find another angle to pursue. Three: Logan had been livid in the sports bar that night, and it probably wasn’t over a swiped five bucks. The question remained at who? Eric? If so, next question: Why? But Eric Kane had been only one man at a table full of many. Being a suspicious weasel who saw through my charade that day at Health-Tech Systems didn’t qualify him as a murder suspect. Even though he was still placed as Numero Uno on my suspect list.

  Eleven men had sat at that table. Three days left to stalk them and to figure out which one would inadvertently lead me to Logan. Not enough time and the day was already half over. Feet skidded to a stop.

  Brittney Fellows.

  The actual person on my agenda to stalk. The one I was actually paid to follow, therefore giving me cash for my electric bill. Cash to put food in the fridge. Cash for my bus fare. Reality sucked. She could be exiting her building at that very moment while I stood at an elevator bank inside the DrydenMercer building.

  Then again, sh
e might not. No guarantee she’d leave for lunch. Priorities seriously needed to get in proper order because a possible Logan lead outranked a client’s favorite color.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.

  Besides, if Logan Bradley wasn’t in Hell by Friday, it wasn’t Maude Taggart whose wrath I’d face.

  The Dryden Mercer accounting firm had the top three floors of the building, and I arrived at the highest thankful to not be a burnt crisp. Hellhound had taken the space inside the elevator cab, leaving me a cramped corner. Spoiled beast. I stepped out onto the gleaming wood floors of DrydenMercer’s lobby with jacket melted against skin and begging for a breeze. The receptionist desk showcased along a back wall with one large screen plasma hung above, cable news running at low volume. A wall of frosted glass stood off to my right, an apparent conference room that sounded to be in use. My breath exhaled in relief based on the voices drifting out from the inside, none belonged to one Lacey Briggs.

  A plain girl with long brown hair in a shade of dull sat behind the receptionist desk. Glasses that ate up too much of her face were shoved up the bridge of her nose. The rims of her eyes behind the large lenses were red. Lacey had described her as what? Dumpy?

  Tearing out one’s toenails was less painful than agreeing with Lacey, but sadly, Lacey had been onto something with this one. The urge was strong to take this girl by the hand and head straight to the nearest salon. And seriously, she was a girl. Barely looked eighteen. Logan had been twenty-eight. No, this had not been a girlfriend unless he’d liked them young. But Gut informed she had not been a romantic interest for Logan. So what then?

  “Can I—” sniffle “—help you?”

  Her bone structure and eye shape were familiar. TV star resemblance? Had we bumped into each other at the grocery? A small white tissue disappeared into the palm of the hand held up to her nose, and a goose honk filled the room with sound.