Page 22 of Breaking Rosalind
He flicks his head up toward the tower. “Take a look.”
I tilt my head. A half-naked woman stands on a balcony ledge, wearing torn sheets around her crotch and breasts. Her hair is a mass of wild curls that stand out in all directions.
Relief courses through my veins, melting away the tension. I stumble forward, barely catching myself on Gil’s arm.
That’s not her.
Leroi’s stalker’s hair was straight. And she had much larger breasts.
“You okay, Cesare?” Gil asks with a frown.
“Fine,” I rasp.
He leans in close, his nostrils twitching the way he does when he’s trying to sniff me for traces of alcohol. “You sure?”
I step back. “Yeah.”
“Gil,” says a sharp voice from behind us.
I whirl around and lock gazes with my brother, Benito, the one with the Ivy League law degree and a stick up his ass. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing spectacles with plain glass lenses.
He looks past me as though I don’t exist. “I need you in a car out front to take Roman to the gates. The police are on the other side, wanting answers.”
I scowl. “For what?”
Benito tilts his head toward the hysterical spectacle on the balcony. “There’s a warrant out for her arrest. Multiple witnesses, including a detective, saw her disappearing last night with Roman.”
With a nod, Gil bolts around the side of the house.
“How can I help?” I ask, still not sure if this is a lucid dream.
Benito's features pinch. “Stay out of the way and keep that woman you brought home in your playroom.”
My stomach drops to the paving stones, and a chill rushes down my spine. Any offense I might take about being called a nuisance vanishes. Benito knows. The guards at the gate would have told him if she had left, which means she’s somewhere on the grounds.
But in what state?
I can’t let this become a repeat of the situation with my pet rabbit.
After shooting me a disapproving glower, Benito storms away, his shoulders bunching. I watch him disappear around the corner before rushing back toward the pool house, determined to find what’s left of that woman.
I hope to fuck she’s still alive.
By the time I trudge across the lawn and back to the pool house, my legs are dragging like they’re made of lead and my arms hang heavily at my sides like clubs. I try sifting through my memories once more to dredge up what might have happened to the woman, but it’s blank.
The morning sun scorches my skin like a crackling fire, making sweat trickle into my eyes. My vision blurs, and I stumble forward, light-headed and dizzy from the heat. I’m clinging onto consciousness, on the brink of passing out.
This is no ordinary hangover. This is the work of narcotics.
All the symptoms point toward a date rape drug: fatigue, headache, nausea, dizziness, and memory loss.
Leroi’s stalker must have drugged me with something potent, but when? Was it during a struggle? Is she dead? I’m still coming down from a sedative, which means I wouldn’t have had the time or capacity to hide a body.
So, where the hell did she go?
I shuffle alongside the pool, which reflects bright sunlight that sears my eyes until I squint. Grimacing, I run through the possibilities based on personal experience and what I learned on the job and in medical school.
It can’t be GHB. That only lasts a few hours. I’ve taken that shit before with no lingering aftereffects. Roofies? I shake my head. Rohypnol would make me groggy, like I’ve just come out of sedation, not make me feel like the walking dead.