Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 32

Chapter 32: Special Delivery

"Oh, shit!" The words escape my lips as I watch the brown stain spread.

Penelope lets out a squeak that’s half surprise, half horror. She leaps to her feet, rushing towards the kitchen. "Paper towels! I need paper towels!"

But I barely register her panic. My mind is racing, replaying the conversations with the police, searching for a crucial detail I’d overlooked.

"The accounts!" I blurt out, my voice rising with urgency.

Penelope returns, a wad of paper towels in hand. She drops to her knees, dabbing frantically at the spill. "What accounts?"

I set my mug down, careful not to cause any more damage. "The client accounts I found, the ones with Scott’s name all over them."

Penelope pauses in her cleaning efforts, looking up at me with a frown. "You think it’s all related?"

I run a hand through my damp hair. "What are the odds, Pippa? We start looking into these supposedly murdered people, and then Scott shows up dead? After I find his name all over those files?"

She sits back on her heels, considering. The rug is forgotten for a moment as she processes my words. "Your logic isn’t unsound," she admits slowly. "But Nicole, we haven’t found any actual evidence of these supposed deaths."

That’s a fair point. "Still, it’s something for the SED to look into. They even asked if he had enemies at work..." How my brain didn’t process the connection, I don’t know. Then again, I felt half catatonic during the entire thing.

"Has Scott’s death hit the news yet?" I’m not some sort of murder-voyeur. It’s just that, thinking of those deaths that haven’t been reported in the media, I have a hunch...

Maybe Scott’s won’t hit the news, either. And if it doesn’t, then maybe it’s proof of a connection. And maybe, if there’s a connection, the SED won’t try to pin me for his murderer.

Is it terrible to worry about myself when my ex-fiance lost his life?

Penelope reaches for the remote, flicking on her sleek, wall-mounted TV. As the screen comes to life, she also pulls out her phone, thumbs moving rapidly across its surface.

"Nothing on the major networks yet," she reports, flipping through channels. "And I’m not seeing any headlines online either. But it’s still early, I suppose." freeweɓnøvel~com

I nod absently, my attention caught by the images flashing across the TV screen. It’s coverage of a local election, faces of candidates I vaguely recognize from campaign posters around town. For a moment, I let myself be distracted by the mundane normalcy of it all. People going about their lives, worried about who’ll be the next city council member or whether the new tax proposal will pass.

It feels surreal, watching this slice of everyday life while my world has been turned upside down.

"I’m going to call the detective."

* * *

Sunlight assaults my eyelids, and I jerk awake in shock.

For a second, I thought I was back in that brightly lit interrogation room, still dressed in clothes with Scott’s blood all over them.

But I’m not.

I’m on Penelope’s couch.

Reaching for my phone, I check the clock: 7:00 a.m.

Leaning my head back with a sigh, I check my notifications. Nothing.

I’m supposed to return to the station in a couple hours to discuss everything with the detectives. Instead of getting up, showering, getting dressed, and eating breakfast like a normal human, I just groan and roll over, closing my eyes as tight as I possibly can.

A cheerful jingle announces the opening of Penelope’s front door, and I glance over my shoulder to see her coming in, dressed in a full athletic outfit—lavender with white stripes down the pants—and a nondescript, large paper bag in her hands.

’Keep your head up.’

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