The Assassin by Ella Sheridan

Author:Ella Sheridan [Sheridan, Ella]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: romantic suspense, erotic romance, contemporary romance, romantic thriller
Publisher: Ella Sheridan
Published: 2019-07-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Five

Entering an empty house is easy. A house that’s occupied? Not so easy, but doable. My options—and time—were limited, so having Roslyn’s daughter on the third floor had been an acceptable risk.

Abigail Roslyn was [twenty-one. Daddy’s little hostess for all social events, the exception being her Thursday nights free. An only child whose mother died when she was a toddler. She didn’t take after either parent with her dark red hair and curvy figure. Pictures of Roslyn’s events always showed her in the background, never at his side, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aiding and abetting her father in whatever he did.

I entered the third floor from the back staircase just as I had the second. The back half of the floor contained guest rooms, and I holed up in one while Abigail finished eating. Shadows kept me hidden as she descended the front stairs with her tray a few minutes later. In a loose-fitting tee and yoga pants, her hair up in a messy ponytail, she looked about fifteen. Too young to rule the staff with an iron fist; that was definitely Roslyn’s doing.

Maybe he rules Abigail as well. Does she resent that, resent him? Or does her father’s wealth and position make up for the lack of freedom?

I’d find out soon enough.

She returned minutes later, glancing in my direction as she topped the stairs. Her steps hitched, a flash of something crossing her face as she stared into the shadows, as if she could sense something not right. Some marks could. That didn’t mean they could find me.

Abigail didn’t either—she shook off whatever had caught her attention and moved into her living area, already pulling the ponytail from her hair.

That hair. I watched it fall down her back as she passed through into her bedroom, the sight tightening something low in my gut. Long and curly, a vibrant splash of color. It would make her stand out anywhere, that hair. It certainly drew attention. My attention.

Abigail Roslyn was interesting, if secondary to my target. The question was, was she worth my time? Or maybe, more appropriately, how could I make her worth my time?

I waited five minutes more before easing from my position to enter the living area. From the crack of the bedroom door, the sound of water rushing into a tub reached me. I crouched nearby a few more minutes, alert, ready, until the water turned off and the splash of Abigail getting in came through. Only then did I do a quick, thorough search of the living room and add my bugs. Other than a day planner open on the desk, some textbooks and papers, there was nothing out in the open, nothing that would help me understand Roslyn except a single framed image: a beautiful blonde woman holding the hand of a redheaded toddler. The baby stared solemnly into the camera; the woman scowled from beside a Porsche convertible.

The dead mother. Neither of them looked happy to me.

So why does she have this picture in her room, where she has to see it every day?

I slipped into Abigail’s bedroom.

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