The Devil’s Favorite のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

SerenaThere were three photographs of my father with Vivienne outside Blackwell Group.Three photographs that had somehow ended up on a memory card inside his old camera.And one very obvious problem.Who the hell had taken them?I had been so busy staring at my father’s watch that I’d overlooked the fact that he couldn’t possibly have been standing beside Vivienne and holding the camera at the same time.Unless he’d developed a third arm.Which, considering how much he enjoyed controlling everything, probably would have delighted him.I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by my laptop, a notebook, and the remains of a chocolate bar I’d promised myself I wouldn’t finish.It was Thursday evening.I’d spent most of the afternoon avoiding my father’s calls.He’d called twice yesterday while I was having lunch with Kael, and three more times today.I knew why he was calling.Or at least I had a fairly good idea.He wanted to discuss our last conversation about Vivienne. He p

KAELThe first sign that something was wrong was the broken glass.I hadn’t noticed it when I walked into the restaurant.It was a small place in Brooklyn, the kind that looked as though it had survived three generations of owners and several attempts by developers to turn the entire street into luxury apartments. The tables were close together, the coffee smelled burnt, and a woman behind the counter was arguing with a delivery driver.I had been there once before.Three days ago, Serena and I had sat across from Clara Whitmore while she told us what she remembered about Vivienne’s last visit to Blackwell Group.Now Clara was dead.And I was standing outside the same restaurant, looking at a broken drinking glass beside the entrance.It had nothing to do with her death.I knew that.Still, I couldn’t stop looking at it.“Kael.”Damon’s voice came from behind me.I turned.He was wearing jeans and a black jacket, his hair slightly disheveled. He had apparently come straight from home.

KAELSerena was jealous.She would rather swallow glass than admit it, but she was.I knew because she’d spent the last five minutes pretending not to watch the woman standing beside our table.“Mr. Blackwell, you really don’t remember me?”The woman laughed, touching my arm.I remembered her perfectly.Unfortunately.“Of course I do, Vanessa.”Her smile widened.“We met at the Harrington charity gala. You promised we’d have dinner.”Across from me, Serena slowly put down her glass.I hadn’t promised Vanessa dinner.I’d told her we should catch up sometime, which was apparently a legally binding agreement in certain social circles.“I’ve been busy,” I said.Vanessa tilted her head.“Too busy to return a phone call?”Serena cleared her throat.Vanessa finally looked at her.“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”I leaned back.“Vanessa, this is Serena Sinclair. My girlfriend.”Serena’s eyes flicked toward mine.It was the first time I’d introduced her that way.I rather enj

KAEL Serena was sitting in my chair when I walked into my office. Not the one across from my desk. Mine. She had her feet tucked beneath her, a cup of coffee in one hand, and an unimpressed expression on her face. “You’re late.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s eight seventeen.” “You said eight.” “I was downstairs speaking to my assistant.” “Seventeen minutes, Kael. I could’ve solved a murder in that time.” I laughed. “Have you?” “No. Your computer is locked.” I walked behind her and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She turned her face and caught my mouth instead. The kiss lasted long enough for me to forget why I’d come upstairs. When she pulled away, she smiled. “Now unlock the computer.” “Romantic.” “I’m a very romantic woman.” I entered my password, and Serena moved into the chair beside mine. We’d agreed to examine Blackwell Group’s old records ourselves. I had no intention of spending another week waiting for someone to call with information we could find on our own.

KAEL Serena stole my shirt. Not borrowed. Stole. I found her in my kitchen the following morning, wearing one of my white shirts, her hair gathered into a messy knot, and my favorite mug between her hands. She looked entirely too pleased with herself. “That’s mine,” I said. She glanced down at the shirt. “What’s yours?” “My shirt, Serena.” “And?” “And you have your own clothes.” She took a sip of coffee. “Yours are more comfortable.” I walked over and stood beside her. “You could’ve asked.” “Would you have said no?” I considered it. She smiled triumphantly. “Exactly.” I slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. She leaned into me, pretending she wasn’t smiling. Three days ago, she’d arrived at my penthouse carrying a bag and wearing the expression of a woman who had decided she was done dealing with the rest of the world. Now she was barefoot in my kitchen, drinking my coffee, wearing my clothes, and arguing with me as though she’d lived here for years.