DECEIT (B723) by Hazel Grace (ebook reader for surface pro .TXT) 📕

the side table, lights seep underneath the door I’m in. His dress shoes hit the hardwood floors, clearly on a mission to confront the person who may still be in his home.

It’s bold. Him being alone and not knowing what awaits him.

But then again, psycho.

“The fuck are you doing in my house?” my ex seizes out. “I have security outside and inside this—“

“I’m here to get answers to my fucking questions,” Bishop carps out in his deliciously deep octave.

The fridge opens, and I hear Alexander say, “Then schedule an appointment. Now you’re going to go to jail for breaking and entering.”

“I’ll break your hand before you dial the last one, so sit before I start smashing shit.”

I don’t hear anything but silence for a moment as I press my ear to the door before my ex speaks next.

“What do you want?”

“Emmy wasn’t in a car accident, was she?”

“I don’t know,” he replies flatly. “I wasn’t with her, but that’s what I was told.”

“So, who’s covering her death? For a boyfriend, you sure looked okay at her funeral.”

“I should be asking you the same question. Your little gang may have killed her. But I wouldn’t know since she had a closed casket.”

“Which is funny because there was no car accident,” Bishop reiterates. “Which makes me believe you did something.”

What the fuck? 

He got smart and pulled a me on me. He must’ve had someone pull video footage, but how would he learn where to even look because the place doesn’t exist.

Unless he’s calling a bluff.

“Why me?” Alexander presses.

“Because she would’ve had to come in for an emergency to give birth to those twins. So if she didn’t have any blunt trauma from a supposed car accident…I’m voting that you did it.”

“I didn’t—“

“Where’s her fucking car?”

“I don’t—“ One of Alexander’s stools at his kitchen island scrapes loudly against the floors, and I know Bishop is beginning to lose his temper. The fact that he hasn’t hurt Alexander yet amazes me.

“You know more than what you’re telling me,” Bishop growls out so lowly that I think that’s what he said.

If Alexander comes clean, he’s dead.

If Alexander lies…he’s still dead in Bishop’s eyes.

I may have lost my chance to kill my ex for reasons my husband doesn’t even know about.

I’m on the verge of losing not only my temper but the promise I made to the boys when I said I wouldn’t kill the man in front of me without cause.

Without them.

The argument is that if we know Alexander did more than what he’s claiming—besides fake being sad at his girlfriend’s death—we’d do it together.

And all I can think of is slitting his throat right now or plummeting him into this floor for touching the woman I love and even believing for a second that he could have her.

Alexander stares at me through a scowl with his perfectly pressed suit and blue tie.

He fucks with the black sleeves of his jacket as though this conversation is boring, and he can’t be bothered with it.

He sure is taking all this well for someone who claims to have wanted to be with her.

And for a man with so much money, he could’ve done his own investigating unless he’s that fucking dumb or behind this whole ordeal.

I’m voting for the latter.

“Think all you want,” he conveys over the rim of his water bottle. “I’m not the one to blame for your friend’s death. She was my girlfriend, shouldn’t I be the one freaking out?”

“And why aren’t you?” I perk a brow in challenge to which I’m responded to with a placid expression from him.

I was in fucking love with this woman, ready to burn anyone to the ground that might have hurt her, and he’s standing here drinking water like it’s another night with an uninvited guest.

“I was told by a medical professional that she died in a car accident. If you want her car, it’s more than likely in the junkyard.”

It’s not.

Mills checked when he looked into security cameras and the ones that are on top of traffic lights. There is not one shred of evidence that shows Emmy was involved in an accident on any of the routes Em takes, which leaves this ass clown in front of me.

I didn’t think Alexander was going to bluntly tell me anything. I have at least sixty more pounds on him, a few inches, and just the glare I’m sending him could possibly make him shit his rich pants if I focused on putting it on full force.

However, I’m not so high above hitting the man who touched what was mine even though she fucked me over in the long run.

Maybe it’ll help with some sort of closure.

Maybe it’ll just make my knuckles sore and nothing else.

“You need to get out of my house,” Alexander commands, yanking his phone out of his slacks. “Emmy is dead, and that’s—“ My arm shoots out, hitting the fruit bowl in the middle of his kitchen island as I send it flying across the pristine kitchen.

“You fought, didn’t you?” I press, rounding the granite island. “Did you touch her?”

“And why would I do that? I bought us a new house and—“

“That doesn’t mean shit. Your money wouldn’t have bought Emmy, so you either have the humor of a clown or…” I don’t want to talk about his dick or sex life. I’m not going there. “Where were you the night she gave birth?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Make it my business.” I try to loosen my clenched jaw, but all I want to do is shove that water bottle down his throat.

She’s gone, and nothing is going to bring her back, I know that.

I hate that.

I have to live without her for the rest of my life and I’m not sure I can.

“Listen,” Alexander says, trying for a calm and rational approach to the conversation. “I was at the office. I got the call from the hospital. I rushed over, I didn’t even get to go inside the operating room because…I guess things weren’t going so good.”

“And you didn’t