TIMOFEY
She deserves to eat alone.
I know enough about fucked-up fathers to know I don't ever want to be anything like that. Comparing me to her own is spitting in my face. It pisses me the hell off.
Then I remember the way she looked standing in front of me, my shirt drooping off her narrow shoulders and hanging low over her thighs. In some ways, it was even worse than seeing her in the barely-there tank top.
Since the moment she entered the picture, Piper has been one big wrench in my plans.
My phone rings. I answer it without seeing who it is.
"What?" I bark into the phone.
"Sounds like you're in a good mood," James Rooney says.
"All the more reason for you to get to the point so we can hang up."
He sighs. "I'd hope for a little more gratitude considering I just cleaned your house."
Cleaned your house is Rooney's cheesy little codeword for "covered up a crime." I don't need to ask to know he's talking about the murder of the Albanian gunrunner last night.
