Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 337

Another officer unzipped the bag next to Mark. When he looked inside, his expression faltered.

With gloved hands, he pulled out a piece of what was unmistakably tanned human skin—an entire sheet, shaped like it had once covered someone’s back.

A few of the designers nearby took one look and immediately lost their lunch, retching into the wastebasket or scrambling for the nearest exit.

The lead officer quickly blocked the view, holding up a hand. “No one breathe a word of this. The detectives will need to get your statements soon.”

Bridget’s face paled, her jaw set tight as she took an involuntary step backward. Sweat beaded at her hairline.

But the officer didn’t miss a thing.

“Ms. Simpson,” he called, “I’ll need you to stick around too.”

“Me? Why? I don’t know anything about this…” Bridget stammered, but before she could finish, she bumped right into a wall of muscle.

She turned to see Rupert, her eyes wide and full of distress. “Mr. Rupert, I was just trying to help Sylvia. Next thing I know, I’m the one in trouble.”

“I know,” Rupert said quietly, his voice calm but protective. He handed her a handkerchief and gently moved her behind him, shielding her from the commotion.

He fixed the officer with a cool stare. “She’s been with me all night. She doesn’t know anything about what happened here. Maybe focus on the people who actually look suspicious.”

His gaze flicked coldly to Sylvia.

Sylvia stiffened and looked up. Their eyes met for a brief, electric second before Rupert turned his attention back to Bridget.

Bridget managed a weak smile and looped her arm through Rupert’s, leaning in as if they were the perfect couple.

Sylvia turned her back and began answering the officers’ questions.

With no evidence linking anyone, the police finished up the statements and had everyone sign off before letting them go. Sylvia left with Eloise back to their hotel.

In the crowd, Uncle Steven frowned. “So that’s the girl from the Garcias’ mess?”

Uncle Charles glanced at his phone, scrolling through a photo. “Yeah. Tristan sent this earlier—it’s her, all right.”

Uncle Steven sucked his teeth. “She is easy on the eyes, but Rupert doesn’t seem interested. No point wasting time. If you ask me, Bridget’s a better fit—”

Uncle Charles pocketed his phone and shot him a warning look before walking away.

...

“Mm. Go on, then.”

Rupert swirled his drink, eyes narrowed in thought.

Once Bridget disappeared into the master bedroom, Orson stepped into the room.

Rupert set down his glass and eyed Orson up and down.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?” Orson yelped, clutching his chest like a Victorian maiden. “Mr. Rupert, I’m here for business, not…whatever this is.”

Rupert just stared.

A moment later, Bridget appeared in the doorway, wearing a silk nightgown and leaning against the frame, all curves and intent.

“Care to join me for a bath?” she purred.

Orson spun around, spluttering red wine across the carpet. “Uh… I think I’ll pass on that, thanks.”