SATISH
Thursday—3 p.m.—Los Altos Hills, California
After his fifth glance in the rearview mirror, Satish tapped his horn and fired a silly grin at his reflection. Unless Dimitri and his goon drove the only invisible vehicle in the universe, they weren’t giving chase. Dammit. He rubbed his index finger. Punching the damn intercom on the gate for ten minutes should’ve gotten a rise out of somebody.
All that testosterone gone to waste.
Unlike Nicholas, Mr. Macho. Cold-blooded killer. Still full of testosterone. Ready to unleash his rage again, unless Satish was mistaken. How the hell could he persuade AnnaSophia to take the kids and leave her house? She thought Nicholas was a nice guy—thanks to Alexandra’s manipulations and lies. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and hit the gas.
So right about her daughter, so wrong about a serial murderer. He punched in her phone number. Stopped. Not a good question to ask on the phone.
Denial would prove harder face-to-face.