The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

ground floor and the concrete tower above it, the building looks top-heavy. I think the architectural style is called “brutalist,” and if it’s not, it should be because the squat, gray-white building is brutally fucking ugly.

At the moment, the setting fits my mood. Miranda’s impending arrival feels like a count-down to doomsday. And I told Rick that stalkers escalate; he didn’t want to hear it. He knows our security procedures and he broke them. He’ll be lucky if he wasn’t exposed to something. Acids, contact poisons, nerve agents. Plenty of harmful crap can be sent through the post, and even more via courier. Sure, most of what can really hurt you is hard for the average civilian to get their hands on, but fucking pool chlorine can cause serious burns, as I know from experience. Rick makes his living off his face and he stuck it in front of a suspicious package like we’ve never had the “don’t open something that hasn’t been vetted by security” talk.

He’ll be lucky if I don’t lock him in his own damn safe room with just Manny for company until I find this stalker.

Focusing on Emily keeps me calm through the taxi ride and on the way up to Rick’s apartment. She doesn’t need either the concentrated attention or the rules I’m heaping on her. Despite Pence’s bullying last night, Caddy’s kink-shaming this morning, and Miranda arriving in a few hours, she seems relaxed. She’s dealing with everything far better than I am.

While we’re waiting for the elevator, I put her in High Protocol. She’ll stay on her feet until we’re inside Rick’s apartment. Once we’re inside, she’ll be on her knees. Neither Manny nor Rick have seen her in High Protocol before. Manny won’t twitch. I’ve never once seen the guy seriously lose his cool, not even during the unplanned home birth of his second kid, which is why I trust him so much. But I’ll have to keep a close eye on Rick to make sure he doesn’t say or do anything to humiliate Emily.

Ironic that of the two of them, the one I have to watch is the damn Dom.

Manny buzzes us in, and after clasping hands with me, he goes to give Emily a hug, but I wave him off. “Emily’s in High Protocol today. Please don’t touch her or try to talk to her.”

Manny shrugs. “Sure. Rick’s in the kitchen.”

“Right, thanks.”

We shake and he heads out. He’ll have to hustle to make it to the Castillos’ by ten.

Once the door closes behind him, I hold my hand out to Emily and when she puts her soft fingers in mine, help her kneel. “Crawl a step behind me into the kitchen and then kneel at my feet.”

She turns those big, baby eyes up to me. Her pupils are so wide, there’s just a thin rim of hazel around the black. Her soft cheeks are stained adorably pink. She breathes in shallow little puffs. Everything about her settles me, makes me feel like my center of gravity has dropped a comfortable inch.

Once she’s down, I rest my hand on her head for a moment, then walk slowly down the carpeted corridor to the kitchen.

Rick’s apartment has all the warmth you’d expect in this soulless concrete cube. His designer was probably married to the architect. Everything’s white and chrome, with splashes of “accent” teal and gray. No warmth. Rick’s apartment makes me feel cold in the middle of August, even before he turns on the A/C.

But it’s upstairs where things really get creepy. Rick’s got three huge things up there. One on the stairwell, just to freak you out as you go up in search of the bathroom. One in the hallway, so you feel the bloody thing’s empty eye-sockets following you. And one hanging over his fucking bed. There’s no possible way I could sleep with a framed, chrome skeleton staring down at me. Rick says it reminds him to live in each moment.

It would remind me to sleep in a hotel. And fire the decorator.

Happily, there’s none of this post-modern, ironic, weird-ass art on the lower floor. The kitchen’s just a kitchen, although the spotless white and chrome everywhere makes it clear that Rick never uses it. The man himself is standing at the central island, braced on his elbows, with another of his probiotic smoothies in front of him. There’s a teal ceramic bowl in the middle of the island, no fruit or anything that organic in it. A tall cardboard box sits next to the bowl. The box is closed, but a peel of tape down one seam shows that it’s been opened.

I stop a foot away, wait until Emily crawls up beside me and settles on her knees, then drop my hand on the top of her head and stroke her until that sense of calm returns and I don’t want to leap across the counter and throttle Rick for his stupidity.

“You okay, mate?” I ask.

Rick glances up. He looks like shit. Cheeks drawn. Eyes red. I’m hoping that’s just upset and not that he’s been exposed to something.

“Yeah, sure, all good,” he says.

I don’t believe him.

“When you opened the box, did anything come out? Mist? Powder? Did you feel anything? A puff of air? A sting?”

“No.” Rick shakes his head, his uncombed hair flopping around his forehead and ears. “What are you talking about?”

“Do me a favor and take off your shirt. I want to take a look at you.”

“Fuck you, man.” Rick pushes back from the island. “What shit is this?” He waves at Emily. “What’s she going to do, give me a consolation blow job?”

I want to punch him for even suggesting it. I’d never, ever share Emily with him.

“Emily’s in High Protocol, to keep her safe.” I pause to let the connection between following my rules and safety sink in. “I want you to take off your shirt so I can make sure nothing came out of that box that could hurt you.”

Rick