Prologue
A woman’s sultry laughter crackled on the phone line. “I just want him dead, Norman,” she intoned. “Will you do that for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d be disappointed if I had to do it myself. Don’t make me do it myself, Norman,” she said. Norman was silent.
“Norman, will you do this for me or not?”
He hesitated, interference crackling through the line as he exhaled.
“I will,” he said.
Stony silence on the phone line.
“I love you, Angela,” he said.
Specks of blood are splattered on a computer screen, covering the Myface social media profile of
ANGELA FOX, 27, Los Angeles
a stunning blonde, her red lips smiling seductively in her profile picture. On the sharp iMac screen, she’s the epitome of health and beauty. Stark contrast to the dead man slumped on the granite desk in front of her. Sure, Amir Siddig used to be handsome, but death has already stolen that from him. He also used to be rich, but death has stolen that from him, too. If Amir were still alive, the floor-to-ceiling windows would have treated him to a view of the lush grounds of his Hollywood Hills estate. He’d see palms swaying in the breeze. And his sparkling infinity pool would give way to the brilliant lights of the L.A. basin at night. But the computer screen—Angela’s face—just shines on his lifeless body, filling the room with a pale, oblivious glow.