Black is My Heart (Humorous Thriller, Completed)

Chapter 1

Author's Note:

If you're reading this note on any site other than W*ttpad, then you're reading a pirated copy of this book. Please choose to read on a reputable site rather than one run by thieves. Writers put in a lot of effort to bring you stories - the least you can do is allow them control of their own work.

I (Elise Noble) do not have an account on the NovelHD site - the people who run it have created a fake account in my name.

And if you are reading on W4ttpad, thanks so much for giving my story a try!

***

Ever hear about the time an assassin got stuck in a closet while a sitting congressman got screwed to death by a pseudo-hooker on the other side of the door? Let me tell you, it was fucking awkward.

And totally not my fault. Not this time.

No, the blame for that little adventure lay squarely with Ahmedeen al-Shabari, a Middle Eastern terrorist who had trouble telling his red wire from his blue wire. Because if he hadn't accidentally blown himself up one fateful day in April, I'd have been kicking around in Afghanistan, topping up my tan and trying to avoid food poisoning instead of cursing out my laptop when Daniela di Grassi walked past my office.

"What's up?" she asked from the doorway.

"The damn E key just fell off. Who built this piece of crap?"

"Some twelve-year-old kid earning a buck an hour, probably."

For over a decade now, Dan had been one of my best friends, my colleague, and my partner in crime. We both worked at Blackwood Security, the company I owned along with my husband and two others, but while Dan was number two in the investigations division, I headed up Special Projects, which basically meant I dealt with all the shit nobody else wanted to touch.

"He was overpaid."

"Stop being such a bitch. What's put you in this charming mood?"

Boredom. "I've been stuck here for three days. Meetings, meetings, and more meetings."

"Well, you're in luck. I've got the perfect fix."

Her fake cheerfulness didn't fill me with joy. "Oh?" Then I spotted the folder under her arm. "The Carmody kidnapping?"

Seven-year-old Mila Carmody had disappeared nine months ago, snatched from her bed in the middle of the night in every parent's worst nightmare. No witnesses, no ransom demands, and no sign of the little girl despite a manhunt involving half the cops in Virginia plus the FBI. The only clue was a tiny speck of blood on the catch of Mila's window, a speck that didn't belong to her or anybody else in the nationwide DNA databases.

Mila's family had hired us three months ago to do a case review, but despite Dan's impressive solve rate, she'd been as stumped as everybody else. Had there been a breakthrough?

Dan shook her head. "Nope. Carmody's still keeping me awake at night, but that's not it. Remember when Rhonda Swanson-Clements came in the other day?"

How could I forget? Two weeks ago, the wife of Paul Clements, our esteemed Representative for the seventh district of Virginia, had insisted on a last-minute, out-of-hours meeting, and when I'd offered her a coffee as I passed her waiting in reception, she'd given me a disgusted look when I told her we didn't have half-and-half. Or at least, her nose had wrinkled. Her forehead was frozen in place by a thousand bucks' worth of Botox.

"Yeah, I remember. She was referred over by Rhodes, Holden and Maxwell?"

The law firm we had on retainer, which also handled a number of high-profile clients. I'd noticed the connection on our case log, but I hadn't read the details.