Some of Jake’s blood had also sprayed onto the marble tile in front of the tub. I grabbed a burgundy washcloth, wet it, and used it to mop up all the stray flecks and specks. I also cleaned off my knife and tucked it back up the sleeve of my dress. The smell of warm copper filled my nose, but I blocked it out—along with the murmur of the marble under my feet. Instead of the dark tone I’d expected, the stone practically sang with giddiness—as though having fresh blood spilled on it made it happy.

The noise made my stomach twist.

I worked quickly, quietly. It had taken me less than two minutes to kill Jake McAllister. Nobody should have missed him yet, but I wasn’t taking any chances by moving slowly. Once I had the blood wiped up from the floor in front of the tub, I drew the curtain, hiding it and McAllister’s body from sight.

In addition to the tub, the bathroom featured two toilets made out of what looked like real gold. They lay opposite two sinks done in a burgundy marble with streaks of white swirled through it. A gilt-edged mirror flanked the wall above the counter. I stared at myself in the glass, assessing the damage Jake McAllister had done to me with his dying struggles. The bastard’s coughing had spattered blood all over my chest. I used the wet washcloth to mop up the blood on my exposed skin, then wrung it out, wet it again, and scrubbed the remaining blood out of my wig. It was harder getting the gobs of blood out of the fake blond tresses, but I managed well enough.

Once that was done, I went to work on my dress. I used some liquid soap from a bottle on the counter and rubbed it into the biggest blood splotches. Since the fabric was black, you couldn’t tell what the stain was, just that I’d gotten something on me. But I managed to get most of the blood out.

My eyes swept over the bathroom again, but there was no visible sign anything out of the ordinary had happened in here tonight. I carefully folded the burgundy washcloth and laid it back in its original spot next to the bathtub.

While I waited for the damp spots on my dress to dry, I rummaged in my purse and pulled out a pressed powder compact I’d brought, along with some lipstick. I’d gotten sweaty during my struggle with Jake McAllister, and I touched up my makeup into its heavy mask once more.

I’d just popped open the lipstick to finish fixing my face when the door to the bathroom opened—and Mab Monroe stepped inside.

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